


Changing tides

by J_Antebellum



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 93,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28092798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Antebellum/pseuds/J_Antebellum
Summary: After the agency's blown-up, Robin and Strike will face the biggest case of their careers; finding the pieces of their lives and putting them back together, and in the process, with a bit of luck, finding what had been missing all along: love.
Relationships: Ilsa Herbert/Nick Herbert, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 45
Kudos: 27





	1. And then the fire

**Chapter 1:** **And then the fire.**

Sirens and flashing lights filled Denmark Street, police pushing away all the passer-bys who wanted to stop and stare, in shock, as the building above the 12 Bar Cafe exploded out of control. It was only 6pm when a huge explosion had provoked over two dozen calls to 999, and now horror and fear was written in hundreds of faces accumulated in the narrow street as the adjacent buildings to Nº6 of Denmark Street were hurriedly evacuated, as explosions were following while the angry flames from hell enveloped Nº6 and its tongues began to reach the buildings at each side and behind, the firefighters trying to penetrate the building where life was no longer expected.

“VAN!” DI Vanessa Ekwensi turned in haze, her phone in her ear and tears drying on her cheeks due to the intense heat emanating, and saw his friend and colleague, his face full of horror, jump out of his car and run to her. “Have you gotten through with them? Anyone?”

Vanessa shook her head.

“No…” she looked back at the building in terror. The windows had exploded and all they could see was fire. Strike’s attic had already begun to crumble, and the office would soon follow. It was an old building. “They had to be there, Eric… it was a case that had them completely absorbed, they were working late all week…”

“Perhaps they went to the pub and are out of battery,” said DI Eric Wardle, scared like she’d never seen him. “I got through to Patricia Chauncey, the secretary, she said she left at 5pm as always and only Corm and Robin were behind, but they always like to think about cases in the bloody pub…

Meanwhile, her eyes opened, burning, and it took Robin a minute to realize the groaning gasps came from her. The  floor tiles were so hot she pushed herself to her feet, limping and shoving rubble off her, gasping for air and trying to see clearly in the smoke, but all she could feel was heat. It was like opening a giant oven. Then, she felt water, and realized that as the bathroom partially crumbled, a pipe had broken and water streamed like a fountain, so she rushed to soak herself all she could. Then her eyes felt better, and her skin, and she noticed her forehead was bleeding. Memories were vague. She remembered laughing with Strike over whiskey, discussing a case, excusing herself to the bathroom in the landing… then a huge noise like the gates of hell opening, and now, she heard as if a giant fireplace was burning, and  _felt_ as if she was in the middle of it.

Heat had swollen the wooden door and it took her a couple hard pushes to break through, only to throw herself to the wooden landing, coughing, as opening the door had been like opening an oven containing billions of degrees of pure flames. The building, old and mostly wooden, was highly flammable, not to mention there were at least two gas kitchenettes, whose pipes had likely exploded, or were about to. Her heart began to race and Robin began to fill dizzy and asphyxiated, sleepiness coming as CO2 clouded her thoughts and the fog of death wrapped around her… and then she remembered.

“Cormoran…” she murmured.

Dragging herself across the floor and coughing, Robin rushed to their office. She couldn’t see anything, but four years and a half of walking this way had engraved the path in her mind, so that where people only saw burning wood, glass and rubble, she saw what had been a door and a desk… the kitchenette burning with gas made it impossible to reach the regular entrance to the inner office, so she retracted, standing and bowing, hiding her mouth in her scarf and trying to protect her burning lungs. To her luck and relief, she saw the explosion had created new holes, and just as she heard the cracks of Strike’s attic crumbling above her, she could see the wall between the inner office and the stairs to the attic had crumbled. There, she squinted her burning eyes, patting the patches of clothing that began to catch fire from the incredible heat, and she tried to distinguish something in the smoke with burning, reddened eyes.

“Strike…” she murmured, her lungs in flames. She had to shout better. She did her best to breathe in through her scarf, and tried again. “Strike… Strike! STRIKE!” she heard faint coughing and rushed through the rubble, jumping over burning rubble, and then she hit something with her feet and fell face down, her fall softened by something soft that she realized were Strike’s legs, part of it hard and painful where the prosthesis was. Coughing hard and dizzier by the second, only the adrenaline and the feeling of death looming over her and Strike kept her going. She removed Strike’s prosthesis and shoes, which had caught fire, and patted his body to extinguish little fires, removing rubble from his body. “Don’t leave me…” she whispered, feeling for his face and leaning until she could half see him in the dense smoke, smell his burnt hair, feel his small gasps of air.

“Robin…” she heard him whisper weakly. “Go… go…”

“You’re my partner,” Robin groaned and screamed in pain as she tried to lift him, but gritted her teeth and threw his weight on her back, bringing his arms over her shoulders and using them to pull from him. “We live together…” she murmured, faint. “Or we die together.”

She stumbled and hoped his foot wouldn’t be too knackered because she couldn’t always keep it off the ground, as bending too much would make her fall forwards, as it happened on the landing, and it almost killed her to get back up with him over her.

The hardest were the first two floors down, through which she moved numb and zombie like, unable to think, just focusing on breathing as she stumbled through rubble and burning stuff she couldn’t identify. Then, she felt some air and could breathe a little better, and heard new explosions above their heads, feeling more ash and rubble fall on them. That gave her a bigger sense of urgency, and she nearly fell again, but held onto the burning banister, feeling her skin blistering already. She had to close her pained eyes, and moved through the motions focusing on her instincts, hunch, her body memory of the building, seeing it in her mind. At last, she felt the wind of fresh air and water collide with her face, and everything went dark.

**. . .**

**THREE WEEKS LATER**

**. . .**

Christmas had come and went, but on New Year’s Eve, St. Mary’s Hospital was still decorated with Christmas lights and decorations, even in the Intensive Care Unit, where two beds next to each other kept two high profile patients shielded from public view by being in a cubicle separated from the rest of the ICU with a glass wall whose curtains were always drawn, so nobody could see inside from outside. The atmosphere in the room was today a little more hopeful, because the youngest of the two patients that had been kept in medically induced coma for three weeks had been cleared to begin being taken from the coma a couple days before, and they hoped she’d be conscious and self-aware soon.

“S…”

A dozen pairs of eyes shot up at the soft groan, and Linda Ellacott, the closest to the younger of the patients surrounded by machines, leaned towards her daughter, the only one of the two patients who no longer lied flat and covered by machines, but with her upper part of the bed a little upwards and less cables, IV needles and machines attached to her. That way, they could see Robin Ellacott’s long strawberry-blonde hair braided over her shoulder, a gauze on her forehead, a nasal oxygen cannula below her nostrils over her upper lip,  her face excessively pale, except for the reddened burnt bits. She wore a hospital gown, but it was loose to uncover her pale freckled shoulders and clavicles, stained by burns here and there, and scratches and cuts, and her burned hands were bandaged.

“S… Strike…” Robin murmured again, her lips, always kept well covered by an ointment of lip balm, barely moving. “Strike.” She tried again, raspy but stronger, clearer.

“Love, wake up,” Linda pleaded softly, gently caressing her face. “It’s okay, you got him out too. You’re both safe now.”

H er eyelashes fluttered, and Robin’s eyelids opened slowly, blinking several times. Daily doses of eye drops made them feel good, fresh, but the room was still a little blurry, so she first saw blurry shapes before catching sight of a room that extended ahead of her, her parents, eldest brother, her favourite cousin Katie, Vanessa, Eric, Nick and Ilsa Herbert, Pat Chauncey, Sam Barclay, Lucy Highland and  Max Priestwood  all staring at her full of worry, with what she realized was a long chest of drawers covered in flowers, cards and stuffed animals behind them. She could hear a distant intermittent beat, and a ventilator, and then heard herself cough before her mother helped her to a glass of water she took with bandaged hands she could hardly move. Her lungs pained her a little, but didn’t feel too bad.

“How are you feeling, sunshine?” Michael Ellacott asked her daughter, looking ten years older. But Robin had caught sight of the patient connected to a ventilator in the bed next to her, so covered in tubes and cables she could hardly see him.

“Strike?” she asked, frowning. “Strike!” thanks to that water she could shout properly. “CORMORAN!”

“Hey, hey,” Nick’s soothing voice came and he gently pushed her back into the bed she had nearly gotten out of in her stress, with the determination and softness of a doctor. His pregnant wife stood by, reaching to take her hand. “Corm will be okay. He took the worst part, so the doctors decided he needs to stay under medically induced coma for now,” he said gently, “but that’s only so he recovers faster, and better, okay? It’s temporary.” He smiled confidently, even when there was uneasiness in his eyes, standing between the two beds.

“What happened?” asked Robin, who last remembered a lunch for Strike’s 40th birthday, six and a half weeks after her own incredible one, a time in which even though they hadn’t gotten _together_ , they hadn’t also _not_ gotten together. She had a confusing memory of flames, and now… looked like a hospital, and her breathing wasn’t smooth as ever.

“Nobody’s certain but…” Eric sighed. “There were a number of explosions in your building and everything was ashes in minutes. We couldn’t believe our eyes when Vanessa and I saw you step out of that hell, carrying Corm on your back. By now, it’s been three weeks—,”

“What?!”

“—and they’ve found traces of explosives, and other explosions are believed to have been in consequence, from gas and stuff like that. I’m sorry Robin but… everything is gone. Corm’s attic, all his possessions, the office… there’s nothing left. When the building collapsed, shortly after an ambulance took you both here, it became a giant bonfire that nearly took half Denmark Street with it. There’s nothing left, not even a miserable photograph, we’ve checked. We’re really sorry.”

To say Robin was shocked was an understatement. Her eyes widened in terror and shock, her heart hammering painfully as she gasped for air, remembering the oxygen cannula by her nose and inhaling hard from it, afraid she’d actually faint. It was all gone? Everything? She opened and closed her mouth, speechless, her eyes filling with tears as she shook her head in denial.

“Before you panic too much,” intervened Pat, her voice calm and soothing in contrast with how raspy and manly it also always was, “remember we worked to digitalize everything, so the boys, Michelle and I have already been back to work. Michelle had a spare computer I could use and we recovered all the files there from the cloud, so we could continue work with some resemblance of normality. We’ve told the clients the explosion was, as far as we’re concerned, due to matters non-related to us or the agency, so we’re not losing clients and we’re meeting them on videocalls instead of at the office.”

“Yes, so we’ve been workin’ all o’ us,” Sam nodded. “Agency’s alive ‘n goin’!” he added with a small smile.

Robin took a deep breath and nodded, exhaling deeply in relief.

“Good,” she nodded. “That’s very, very good. You doing the accounts? Keeping everybody’s paychecks?” Robin glanced at Pat, who nodded with half a smile. “Great, thank you, thank you… Okay well, let’s not panic, we have an insurance, they have to cover for this, it included pretty much everything after that incident with the pipes few weeks ago… the papers… shit, they’re at the office, have they burnt? Of course—,”

“Robin, calm down,” Pat reassured her. “We got it, they burnt but we got copies of everything thanks to Vanessa, who helped us, since it was associated to Corm’s documentation and with most of it burnt, they wouldn’t automatically give us copies. Anyway, the insurance will pay generously the second the firefighters conclude the investigation and it’s proven it wasn’t on us. It can take weeks, but… when they give it to us, bet Corm can get himself a proper flat and everything.”

“And we’ve started a fundraiser,” added Ilsa. “Actually, everyone affected initiated a platform of neighbours affected by the fire and they’re getting money, so they started it, but we thought we should also do something separately so that grateful clients or former clients can perhaps donate instead of sending chocolates for Christmas. And it already collected over twenty thousand pounds, so you guys aren’t ruined, we wouldn’t let it happen.”

Relief washed over Robin and she nearly cried, bringing a bandaged hand to her eyes to rub them.

“Thank you guys, that does help a lot,” she murmured. “Still… please, no one tell Corm anything, okay? If he wakes up and you tell him he’s lost every personal belonging, that we have to start over nearly from scratch and that whatever inherited possessions he was sentimental about have become ashes, he’ll have a heart attack and die, and I’m not joking, he _will_ die.”

“Agreed, but he’s going to notice a whole building’s missing,” said Lucy softly. “We’ve been wondering what we’ll tell him but…” she shrugged and her eyes filled with tears. “The doctors didn’t even think he’d make it until few days ago, so that was the priority.”

“Shit…” Robin’s stomach dropped to her feet. “But he’s going to make it now, right?” she glanced over at Strike behind Nick and Ilsa. He had to make it.

“It’ll be a slow process, but he’s a tough one to beat,” Nick nodded with half a smile. “They’re mostly worried about brain damage, his lungs and skin burns, but considering how the ruins look, I’d say you both were extremely lucky. It’s a big shock to see how the entire thing’s been reduced to ashes, to think someone survived, let alone in pretty good shape all things considered… I’m not religious but I’d call it a miracle.”

“Wait but brain damage is serious,” Robin frowned, adrenaline kicking back in.

“It’s true they’re not sure how he’ll be when he wakes up,” Lucy admitted and muffled a sniffle. “But we’ll be optimistic. They’re saying it could only be slight memory impairment and with a bit of luck, not much else, and the swelling already went down a lot.”

Robin looked again at Strike, seeing a thick bandage around his head, his cheeks reddened and raw from the heat. She couldn’t remember how it had happened.

“Why is he in worse shape than me? If we were together…” she wondered, confused.

“Don’t you remember what happened, darling? Nothing?” Linda asked, gently caressing her hair. Robin turned back to her, baffled, and shook her head.

“I’ve no idea. I don’t even know what day it is.”

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” replied Max, her flatmate, with arms crossed over his chest and worry written all over his face. “The explosion was the 9th, Tuesday. You had been coming home at horrible hours all week, told me you and Cormoran were caught in a big case. Odd thing is, Pat and Sam have no idea what that was about. Nobody, actually.”

“Right, we ain’t workin’ nothin’ biggie now, just yer typical cheatin’ b’stards!” added Sam, nodding.

“And as far as I’m aware nothing new is filed up,” said Pat. “But it’s true for like a week you guys always stayed in the office after I left, I thought you were hooking up to be honest…” she added with a blush.

“Us?” Robin snorted a laugh. “Right, no. I don’t remember why we’d stay up longer hours all week right before Christmas…” she pursed her lips in thought. “I don’t know, perhaps we were preparing for everyone to go on holiday and trying to get more cases closed. But it’d be on the files.”

The idea of hooking up wasn’t so odd, actually. Last Robin remembered was Strike’s birthday, but after her own they had been in an odd limbo. Truth was when the two had gone alone for drinks at The Ritz to celebrate her 30 th , something had sparked, and even though nothing had happened, there had been a general feeling that they weren’t going to be dating or seeing other people, as if waiting for their right timing, like a cheetah observing her food for several days, committed to it, knowing she’d chase  it when she had the best opportunity, and not seeking another.

“I don’t know, you guys were very secretive. The explosions happened like an hour after I left the office, and when I went to your office to check if you wanted something before I left,” as Pat actually always did whenever she left before them, “you both were engrossed over the desk looking at some papers, with the faces you make when you’re so deep in something. Didn’t even heard me knocking, I had to open.” Robin could see she was being honest, not trying to confuse her, but truth was she knew nothing.

“Well I’ve hit my head, haven’t I?” Robin sighed. “I’ve no idea. Last I remember is the beers we had on Cormoran’s birthday, nothing of December… and I always have a sharp memory, that’s frustrating… But I mean the building is old, and Mr Crowdy down the stairs it’s a Graphic Designer, could’ve been a short-circuit or something… our kitchenette could’ve exploded perhaps, gas leaks… shit, is Mr Crowdy okay?” she remembered suddenly.

“He is, although very pissed off for what I’ve heard,” said Wardle. “But there’s no way to know how the fire started or what happened just yet. Could’ve been the bar below, for all we know. But passer-bys said there were two explosions, first one upstairs in your office, then below in Crowdy’s floor or so, and that the blasts were so big the windows exploded. 999 got the alert at a minute past six, and when Vanessa and I got there, the entire thing was a giant bonfire, a month late. We tried calling you both frantically, but nobody picked up and we feared…” he sighed, trying not to think about it. “And then you appeared, carrying Strike on your back, dragging him out. We were astonished, no idea how you made it. He was passed out, and you passed out shortly after.”

“ _I_ carried Cormoran out?” the story seemed crazier and crazier to Robin by the minute. “What?”

“I know right? Girl power,” Ilsa chuckled. “But good news is you both made it out that hell fine enough.”

“Wait but if I was capable of getting him out and still be in better shape, I mean I do feel mostly fine…” Robin looked at her lap, lost in thought. “I couldn’t have been with him when the fire started. He was worst because Eric said the first explosion was in our office or so, so that means _I_ was neither there, nor in Crowdy’s floor where the second went off. I must’ve been in the bathroom, in the landing in-between,” she realized. “Perhaps the pipes burst with the fire and being soaked, I could stand the heat a little better to go back and get Cormoran. Still doesn’t explain how two explosions happened in a small offices building…”

“Well no hurry, but whenever and if you get any ideas, let us know,” said Vanessa. “Because since you guys signed a really big insurance a month before, the fire squad that’s investigating will very likely hypothesize you did it on purpose for insurance fraud’s money, and it’ll be hard to prove you didn’t. Crazier things have been done for fraud, and with the state of things, evidence won’t be easy to find but they might convince a jury enough to actually sentence against you both. Luckily, it’ll take them months to even try, so that should buy us time, so try not to get too anxious.”

“Oh my agency’s down to ashes, my best friend and partner is in coma, and if he wakes up we both might be going to prison and lose our entire reputations and everything we’ve worked so hard for, accused of insurance fraud. We could lose everything, literally, but no pressure, is that it?” Robin said sarcastically, trying to take things with a bit of humour.

“The key is in the ‘could’ and the ‘might’?” Vanessa half smiled. “Come on, you guys have a good team behind you. Everything will be all right, okay? The Rokebys and, believe it or not, Izzy Chiswell have made huge donations in your favour, we got the cheques this morning, those are big numbers enough to hire very good lawyers. And you’re investigators, you’ve gotten yourselves out of worse and now you have two DI to help.”

“Wait, the Rokebys? Shit, Cormoran’s going to love it,” Robin said with sarcasm. “Mum, can I have more water please? Thanks.” Her throat was beginning to get raspy again, and Linda filled her a glass from the jar on her bedside cabinet.

“He’ll have to gulp his pride, things are not to reject those numbers,” said Lucy, eyeing her brother for a second. “Al was here earlier, he’s been now and then, looked worried. I didn’t know him before, is he nice?”

“He’s…” Robin remembered how she had thought nicely of him first, but then how he’d tormented Strike for a year and nearly given a heart attack with his pressuring Strike. “He can be nice when he wants to, but he’s not on good terms with Cormoran right now. They’ve been bickering a little, because Al won’t stop insisting Cormoran has to meet with their father and doesn’t understand a thing called consent. Jonny has cancer, I don’t know if you guys…”

“Came out on the magazines on Christmas,” Linda commented. “Apparently he’s been in a private hospital on and off, over the holidays. He’s terminal, I heard.”

“Yes, Cormoran told me the Rokebys haven’t stopped bothering him all year, even when Joan was…” she let the end of the sentence float in the air, but Lucy caught onto it.

“Bloody bastards can’t fuckin’—”

“We’ll keep them at bay,” Ilsa cut her friend, wrapping an arm around her comfortingly before she could start cursing in the two languages she was fluent in.

“You have to. I’m serious, you guys don’t know but he was already close to exploding earlier in the year only because of work, the Rokebys and…” Robin meditated it for a second. This was private and she didn’t want to betray Strike, but what if any of them appeared in the hospital when she slept and Strike saw them? He had been altered enough to accidentally elbow her, he had seen red, now, with his state, the emotional distress would kill him. “...well, Charlotte was texting him a lot.”

“Charlotte?” Ilsa scowled. “What’s with that bitch now?” Robin was surprised for her language, uncommon in her.

“I don’t know much, but on my birthday Cormoran told me he was changing his number partially so people like her couldn’t reach him again. I’m sure he rejected her every contact, no doubt, and now he really wanted to make sure she’d stay at bay. But say while we’re here she or Jonny use their influence to come into the room and see him, in his delicate state, if they catch him awake, he’ll lose it. I wouldn’t be telling you anything that’s so private of his if it wasn’t because I truly think they could kill him just by appearing, because of his state. Now I can’t do anything to prevent it, so you guys have to protect him instead. Make sure Cormoran doesn’t see any of them.”

“I’ll tell reception not to let them in specifically, got some friends,” said Nick. “And I’ll get your doctor, uh? He’ll like to see you’re awake and talkative.”

“Thanks Nick.”

While Nick left the room, Michael sat on the feet of the bed and squeezed her lower leg gently, affectionately smiling at her.

“Speaking of undesirables… Matthew tried to come in on Christmas Day. Stephen was around and he almost punched him, so I don’t think he’s going to be coming by anytime soon, but he was insistent we’d tell you he’s been worried. Bastard, uh?”

Robin snorted, suddenly very glad for her three male, unreasonable brothers.

“Indeed.”

  
  



	2. Haze

**Chapter 2: Haze.**

The next few days were a blur. Robin found she was mostly tired and sleepy because of the still delicate breathing and the side effects from medication, but then she had moments of great awareness, feeling lucid and talkative for an hour or two before falling into another deep nap. The pain came and went, but the heartache hit her hard every time she eyed Strike, who didn’t seem to change at all, day after day. At least, she told herself, that meant he wasn’t worse either.

Their room was always buzzing with activity, either loving family and friends, which led for Robin to officially meet Ted and be struck by how alike Strike he was, only nicer, or nurses and doctors. As soon as her doctor saw her awake, he insisted Robin began to move a little, which was extenuating considering three weeks in bed, despite the hospital physiotherapist’s care, had put her in a shit shape and her lungs’ shape didn’t help. Still, Robin would let her friends  and family help her walk around in small strolls through the hospital, the cafeteria, and corridors, mostly,  and when she was in her room she mostly sat watching Strike sleep, or talked with whoever was visiting, or sat to read out loud to Strike.

“...there has been a terrorist attack on Charlie Hebdo’s magazine in Paris,” Robin read to Strike one night, sitting by his bedside holding the day’s edition of ‘The Guardian’. They had been moved to a room in the department in charge of respiratory and pulmonary things, because those were the major concerns. Robin had recently caught a cold, as if she wasn’t shitty enough, and was forced to wear a mask to avoid spreading it or giving it to Strike. “Twelve dead, sucks…” she interrupted herself to cough, groaning as her lungs hurt. Putting the newspaper down, she stared at Strike, a pang of sadness in her chest at his inert body that had begun the process to come back from coma. “The good news the doctors are reverting your medically induced coma, so hopefully you’ll be back to annoy us really soon,” she said with a hint of teasing, smirking. “And now it’s been a month so, the second degree burns on your back, face and arms have healed pretty well, minimal scarring, and they’ve made you a new leg, because God knows what happened to your other prosthesis, but I think this one’s better… and my hands are no longer bandaged. They still look a little pink and feel sensitive, but they’re much better.” She caressed his face softly with one hand. “And uh… we miss you a lot, Strike. _I_ miss you very much.” She admitted sadly with a deep sigh. “We still don’t know what happened but… they’ll figure it out. And whatever comes, you know you’ve got me. You’re not facing nothing alone, okay? Never.”

S he lowered her cloth mask a little and brought Strike’s fingers to her lips, lingering a moment before separating and putting her mask back on. She had had a lot of time these days to reconsider her feelings for Strike, and now, with the full knowledge that they had nearly died together, Robin reflected that she would have much rather died together, than go on without him. It was a truth she wouldn’t admit out loud, but every single time she dreamed, as it had lately begun to happen, of flames and destruction, she woke up screaming for Strike’s name, and she knew she was nothing without him. Not because Robin wasn’t self sufficient and all of that, but because life without the people who filled it the most, simply didn’t make so much change.

“Hey, Cormoran…” Robin’s voice came in a weak whisper, and the song ‘Everything’ by Lifehouse echoed in her mind for some reason. “People think I rescued you from the flames, Vanessa and Eric say they saw me carrying you on my back, can you believe it?” she smirked mockingly. “I know, right? But then it got me thinking… and about what happened on my birthday and… Cormoran, I think I would get into a burning building for you, you know? I think,” a knot caught in her throat, “I think I’d do anything for you. Because the idea of not seeing you, of not hearing your voice again, or your laughter, or working a case with you, going in another roadtrip…” her eyes filled with tears and her voice turned hoarse, “it kills me more than the flames could, Cormoran. Life without you is just not half as good, you know? I know. I had twenty-five years of it, and five with you have already beatten them thoroughly. And I know romance is scary, and relationships are scary, and love is… is the scariest thing there is. But you know what scares me the most? That you’ll go… without knowing how much I… I…” she took a deep breath. “Without knowing how much I love you,” she murmured. “I don’t think people should live not knowing how loved they are, perhaps not feeling it, and then die and still don’t know, don’t you think? So if I could do things differently, if I could go back… I’d tell you I need you. And I’d tell you I love you. And then perhaps…” a tear descended down her cheek. “Perhaps you’d recover a little faster. Perhaps you’re being so slow because you don’t know how needed you are.”

W hen Strike’s eyes began to open, he had to blink a couple times to get a clear picture. As he did so, the first feelings and sensations also began to arrive. The comfort of a bed beneath his large body, the warmth of sheets around him, the little pinch of a needed in his arm when he tried to move it a bit. His three and a half extremities felt heavier than usual,  he had an oxygen mask over his face,  and his body seemed to need extra time to get active, his lungs in particular were achy and heavy, and the skin around his arms, hands and face felt too sensitive.

Then he saw Ilsa and Lucy doing small talk at the feet of his bed, and he recognized he was in a hospital bed, in a large hospital room. His bed was in a corner, and when he moved his head slowly to look around, finding his neck seemed unused to the movement and a bit too stiff, he saw another bed, where Linda Ellacott, for some reason, was tidying up the sheets, and then on a chair between both beds, who could only be Robin Ellacott, sleeping in the mattress space left by the absence of a lower right leg. He didn’t know why her face had a cloth mask, he didn’t know why the hand extended over his left knee was preceded by a hospital bracelet, he didn’t know why she looked so pale, why he was there, or why she was there, nor why she was wearing a dressing gown over a hospital gown, but he knew that she was, definitely, his Robin. Why he thought of her as ‘his’ Robin, he also did not know.

“Oh, Cormoran, you’re awake!” Linda had looked up and noticed him with a grin, just as he had managed to lift a hand to caress Robin’s cheek, without thinking much about it. If the last time he had seen her, at Robin’s wedding over three and a half years before, she had been rather rough, it seemed like Robin had been pressuring her to change her views, because now she looked sincerely delighted to see him, and considering Strike could remember Robin commenting she had decided on working through Christmas, he imagined that could’ve had something to do with it.

Startled by Linda, both Lucy and Ilsa stopped talking and turned so fast it was a miracle their heads remained over their shoulders, and in a beat, Lucy was leaning over him, a hand already at his cheek, while Ilsa rushed to call for a nurse.

“Stick! How’re you feeling sweetie?” Lucy hadn’t spoken at him with such sweetness and looked with such a smile since he lost his leg, which made him panic a little. What had he lost this time? He could feel his fingers and remaining foot, so that was to be relieved about, but his throat and chest were achy inside.

“Uh—,” Strike broke into coughing, and it seemed to be all Robin needed to finish rousing from sleep, between her mother rushing to Strike’s bed behind her, Lucy’s voice, the weight of Strike’s hand on her cheek and Ilsa shouting for a nurse, who came eliciting further commotion.

When her eyes opening, Strike could see the confusion and frown as she noticed his hand, then see her eyes widening at the recognition, and then her pupils flew to him and her eyebrows shot to her hairline. She moved a hand to grab his and jumped to her feet, coming closer. In spite of her mask, Strike knew Robin was grinning.

“You’re awake!” she snorted a laugh, eyes damp. “Oh thank God…” she and Lucy shared a smile as Strike tried to murmur again, and Robin kissed his hand affectionately.

“Ah, at last!” a nurse came over. “Okay, everybody out, the doctor and I need to check the patient—,”

“I am a patient in this room,” Robin interjected, and grinned at Strike, who smiled at her, in spite of how odd and somewhat ill he felt. “I stay.”

R obin only consented on moving when the doctor that came quickly ordered her to move to her own bed, but even then she sat there, locking eyes with Strike, and smiling softly, lowering her mask so he could see her as the doctor and nurse poked, prodded, made him breathe into a spirometer managing to lift a couple balls before he got a coughing fit, auscultated him and checked his every vital until they were pleased to reassure he had recovered nicely from medically-induced coma. As odd as all of that was to Strike, he couldn’t bring himself to care when Robin’s blue-grey eyes were fixed on h is dark green orbs.

When at last the medics left, Linda announced she’d go call her husband on the phone and get tea for everyone from the restaurant, and Robin, Lucy and Ilsa returned to his bedside. Thanks to the doctor and nurse, Strike had been freed from a number of machines, tubes and cables, and could sit up in bed against the pillows, rubbing the sleep off his face, without any bandages any more, and a thin scar on his hairline being all that was left for reminder of his blow to the head. The nurses had unattached him from everything except from a clip on his finger that took his heartbeat using a little red light through his finger, and except for an oxygen cannula that substituted the tube he’d had down his throat, given him a glass of water, removed his catheter, and helped him on a quick trip to the bathroom, so he got the first feelings in a while of what it was like to be back on his feet, vertical, with a prosthesis that was somewhat unfamiliar, but at least he had gotten to wash his face in the sink, including the beard that had been growing in earnest. Strike had seen himself in the mirror and knew he looked like he’d been many hours under the sun, a slight reminder, partially due to his beard, to how he had looked in Cyprus when as a SIB he had pretended to be a hippie interested in smoking weed at the beach.

“Before anybody says anything,” he murmured, sleepy and drowsy and with his voice drowsy, “why does it feel like I’ve been in another explosion? ‘Cause I know the feeling, and I don’t like. And what happened to you?” he added, turning to Robin.

Robin, Ilsa and Lucy exchanged nervous glances, but Robin took over,  drinking a glass of water as she sat again at his bedside. She looked way slimmer than Strike remembered her, and out of sorts.

“Cormoran…” she set her mask on her bed, figuring keeping her distance, she shouldn’t be giving anybody her cold anytime soon. “There was an explosion in our building that caused a major fire, a month ago, early in December,” she said softly, and saw his face go from relaxed and intrigued to tense and scowling in a second, so she took his hand gently. “Nobody really knows why just yet, there are people who are investigating it, but the building suffered serious damage, so we’re forbidden from going any closer to it until further notice, okay? We’ll buy you anything you need, since we can’t even pass to your attic. As for work, everybody save for us is busy working, because Pat and I digitalized everything so they can access to files and stuff through any computer, so the agency’s still working fine,” she knew that’d help, and indeed, he looked way more relieved.

“So there was a fire and we were there?” Strike asked, surprised. “Wow, is everybody else all right?” his voice sounded hard done by, and the fact that everybody else had become between his primary concerns warmed Robin’s heart.

“Yes, Vanessa and Eric said Mr Crowdy is furious, his office was seriously damaged apparently, and we were the only ones in the building, it was in the evening so everybody had left, everybody who should be accounted for, is. Our office and your attic apparently also suffered serious damage because the fire spread very quickly, since it’s an old building and everything… but in the positive side,” she hurried to say, seeing worry come back to his eyes, “everybody who was affected, which includes some adjacent buildings to ours, they made a platform to gather monetary donations to recover, and separately while you and I were passed out here, our families and friends and our employees worked together to do this amazing fundraiser for us that has already reached… how much, Ilsa?”

“Uh, it was on forty-three thousand this morning, your friend Culpepper put it on The Sun and a lot of people have been reaching out. You’ve got good friends,” Ilsa quickly replied, and Strike looked relieved again. “And when the investigation concludes, you’ll get a ton of money from the insurance too, you can buy yourself a brand new nice flat.”

“Woah, that’s so nice, thanks for doing that,” said Strike, half smiling. “Well then maybe we’re not completely screwed, right?”

“Of course we’re not. The agency is full of work,” Robin grinned, and hoped he was still drowsy enough to not notice she was hiding something big and there was no building to return to.

“Wait, but you said a month ago… how come we’ve been here so long? And the doctor said I was in coma?”

“Medically induced, both of us,” Robin clarified. “I don’t remember anything about the fire, but it looks like we got trapped and the firefighters couldn’t reach us, so we inhaled a big load of hot smoke which burnt our lungs inside, and we had skin burns that have mostly healed by now, and concussions, probably from falling when the explosion occurred. It seems like you got the worst part and something fell on your back and head, probably rubble or burning wood from the stairs perhaps, because you got hit worse and well, the doctors thought it was best for the both of us to be put under coma with assisted breathing so our lungs recovered faster. I’ve been awake for over a week, they’re discharging me in four days.”

“Good,” Strike nodded, although it saddened him that she wasn’t going to be around any more, selfishly. “Then I surely can go soon too, right?”

“No, the doctor will want to make sure you can breathe right on your own and eat and use the bathroom solo before letting you go,” said Ilsa softly. “Besides, nobody knows what happened to your prosthesis, so they made you a new one and you’ll need a few days to adjust at least, right?”

“So that’s why it felt odd,” Strike nodded slowly, scratching his beard. “So what day is it?”

“10th of January, 2015. Unfortunately you missed the holidays, but this year we’ll make it bigger, uh?” Lucy kissed his cheek longingly. “Jack’s going to be so excited when I tell him you’re back, he was so worried he made you a ton of drawings.”

I t was then that Strike realized the bits of furniture in the room were covered with flower bouquets in jars, get-well cards, and all sorts of get-well gestures. He felt strangely touched people had cared so much about him and Robin.

“January…” Strike looked baffled. “Wow, really?” he asked raspy, leaning against his pillows.

“What’s the last you remember? For me it was your birthday,” commented Robin casually, her strawberry-blonde hair looking as beautiful as ever, loose and a little messy.

“Uhm…” Strike tried hard to think of his last clear memory. “I’m not sure. I remember we were in the pub, laughing about something… but I don’t know, could’ve been any day. I do recall my fortieth birthday clearly, so at least I surely remember as far as that. I’ve got a bit of a headache.”

“The doctor said you had a brain bleed, and they had to do a little surgery to fix it,” said Lucy. “Do you want to eat some, Stick?”

Strike shook his heard, even when he felt a little empty and he could tell he weighted less. His lungs burned a little whenever he breathed. As if empathising, Robin coughed into her elbow and groaned.

“You sure you’re good?” Strike asked Robin, who smiled weakly.

“Caught a cold the other day, stupidly. But I’m sure we’ll be just like new in a couple months, I just might forbid you from smoking in my presence forever.” He snorted a laugh.

“I don’t really feel like smoking either, being honest,” said Strike with a fond glance at her. Then he turned back to Lucy and Ilsa, his thoughts racing. “Could anybody find my phone? Wallet? Documentation or… my laptop?”

“I have your wallet, but we can’t go get you any clothes or anything, so we’ll have to buy for now,” said Lucy. “And Greg’s already asked for new cards because some were a little melted, but your driver’s license is intact and so was the money, I’ll bring it to you next time, I left it home… and your phone was with you, but it was also severely damaged from the heat, only the SIM card and memory card were salvageable, so I gave them to Nick and Ilsa, they’ve gotten you a fancy new phone for Christmas.”

“Yeah, our company was offering us this fancy new IPhone that we don’t really need, so we thought we should still accept it and hand it to you. It’s the newest model,” Ilsa smiled smugly. “I think Nick was going to get a case for it today and bring it after work, Spanner has been working on it to have it ready for you to use with all of your stuff recovered and all. Spanner is also browsing for a proper laptop for you, since we figured yours probably is very heat damaged too, like your phone.”

“Good, thank you so much,” Strike smiled happily, glad he had such good friends that were making sure he didn’t have to worry about a thing. He had feared he’d lose everything. “I don’t know how to thank you guys…”

“Give us a good spa trip for Valentine’s,” Ilsa winked with half a smile.

“How’s the baby thing going, by the way?” Strike asked, realising that even though he might not feel like it, he hadn’t asked in over a month, having been unconscious. Ilsa beamed, caressing her belly.

“It’s been great, we’re expecting you and Robin to be godparents actually,” she added, grinning at them.

“Us?” Robin smiled. “But Ilsa shouldn’t you be picking a couple for that?” she knew Ilsa had made her matchmaking intentions clear, and yet with all she was doing for them, she couldn’t be mad any more.

“Oh, not necessarily. Besides you two can manage an agency together, surely you can co-godparent together. What do you say?”

“You kidding? First time I’m forced to be the godfather of a kid I actually will like, yes, of course,” Strike chuckled. Robin nodded, beaming.

“I’m so flattered you thought of me too,” Robin hugged her from her chair. “Did they tell you if it’s a girl or a boy already while we were passed out?”

“No, but Nick’s hoping for a girl. I don’t really care,” Ilsa shrugged. “As long as it’s a healthy baby… but we’ll find out in a few months, it’s still early.”

Strike smiled, happy for his friends, and inhaled hard from the oxygen in the nasal cannula, feeling like his lungs begged for pure air, as he closed his eyes, falling asleep quickly to the murmur of his friends talking softly, and the relief in his heart because things were being taken care of.

  
  



	3. Friendship

**Chapter 3:** **Friendship** **.**

The first night Strike was conscious, he was horribly aware that it was the first time he and Robin would consciously sleep together. Well, they had separate beds and arm’s length between both, plus a curtain that remained open except when they had to be examined naked, but still, they were in the same room. What if he snored too much? What if he farted? He found himself worrying about every silly thing while Robin went on a bathroom trip. When she returned she looked exhausted and pale, but she managed a small smile at him in the dimly-lighted room. The nurses had insisted they’d switch to oxygen masks for the night, to make sure they had an appropriate flow of oxygen while they breathed more deeply as they slept.

“Goodnight,” she said softly, getting back into bed and clipping her pulse oximeter back, moving to slide her oxygen mask on her face.

“Goodnight,” he said, carefully rolling in bed to face her. He flinched in pain as his injured back rolled, but then relaxed, watching Robin face him too. The nurses kept a wall lamp on, but its light was dimly and soft and pointed to the ceiling, so it didn’t bother them, while letting them have a good view of the other. “You comfy?” he murmured, and saw her lips twitch into a little smile.

“My chest hurts a bit,” she replied sincerely. “But it’s okay. You?”

“My back hurts a bit,” he mirrored her. “But we’re alive. Gotta see the bright side, right?”

“Exactly,” Robin extended a hand and grabbed onto the bar at the side of his bed, stretching a finger to tap his nose playfully. Strike chuckled and in a bold move, leaned to kiss her knuckles, caressing his hand softly in his. “Sweet dreams, Strike.”

“You too, Ellacott. Throw me a pillow if I snore too hard.”

“’Cause that will keep you quiet,” Robin joked, getting more comfortable. “No, it’s okay. Your snores are like a comforting background noise, actually…” Strike smiled to himself. So he was comforting. Somehow. At least a part of him, right? That counted enough.

Normally, Strike found he fell asleep quite easily, but hospitals truly made him uneasy and so he waited until he heard Robin’s breathing deepen and even, and she seemed deep asleep, before even actively trying to sleep. His eyes fixed on the curving line on a screen in the opposite corner of the room, which marked Robin’s heart rhythm, and he focused on that as his eyelids began to feel heavy, before he, too, was deep asleep.

The plus side of being in a hospital was that for the first time, Strike got twenty-four nearly uninterrupted hours of her, and he was going to take full advantage for the little time he had it. However, he hadn’t planned for the first morning to go like it went.

After a night in which he constantly found himself surrounded by flames in his sleep, hearing Robin’s voice shouting his name and feeling like a chicken inside the oven, Strike woke up startled early morning by a major commotion in the room. It took him a few moments to recognize and understand what was going on, and then he distinguished Robin sitting up in bed, weakly trying to match the volume and urgency of someone else’s rushed arguing. Turning, Strike saw Matthew Cunliffe, tall and handsome and with a wedding band in his fingers and a bouquet of flowers in his hands, arguing with Robin in loud hushing.

“...but Robin I _love_ you, it’s always been you, I’m so sorry—!”

“...get out Matthew, I don’t want to hear it…”

“—we could be lovers, you know I only married her because of the baby—!”

“...I don’t want you nor love you—!” Robin broke in coughing and Strike stood up, ripping off the pulse oximeter from his finger and balancing in one leg while he gripped hard the bar fence of his bed to support himself. He hoped that the oxygen mask’s tube would be long enough, but Matthew stood between their beds, so he didn’t have to go far. He grabbed his shoulder to make him turn around, feeling anger rising more and more and finally exploding as his surprised face turned to him, and then Strike’s right elbow drove backwards for impulse and his knuckles slammed so hard against his nose, the crack of the nose fracture loud and clear with a splutter of blood, that Matthew fell on his arse with a thud, dropping the bouquet of flowers he was holding and groaning in pain as his hands flew to his bleeding face.

“Don’t you ever—!” Strike shouted hoarsely with a finger pointed at Matthew, his voice muffled by his oxygen mask, as Robin’s coughing made her own machines alert nurses, who, also alerted by Strike’s machine that no longer detected his pulse, ran into the room. “—dare disturb Robin again, you piece of miserable scum! Because the day you catch me healthy, I WILL KILL YOU!” if he had two legs to support himself on, he would’ve kicked him hard.

“What is going on?” the head nurse seemed alerted. “Who’s this man? Who let him in? Mr Strike please sit down, calm down— Ms Ellacott! Deep breaths!” she ran to Robin’s aid and Strike obediently flopped on his bed, taking deep breaths from his mask and eyeing Robin, who with the nurses’ help seemed to be recovering.

“He punched me, he broke my nose!” Matthew spluttered getting up and pointing at Strike, stepping on his own flowers while Strike connected himself back to the pulse oximeter just to get the machine to shut up.

“Be grateful that’s all I did, you bloody _teasy_ bastard…” grumbled Strike under his breath.

“Sir please let me take you out and we’ll have a look at that nose,” said a male nurse helping Matthew out as he left a trail of blood drops and smashed petals, and another nurse stood looking around, baffled, as two colleagues cared for Robin.

“You all right Mr Strike?” he asked at last, glancing at Strike, who nodded, and lowered his mask to speak loud and clear, albeit hoarse.

“That man is Robin’s ex-husband, a cheating scumbag, so you don’t bloody let him anywhere near him again, understood?”

“Oh God, yes, yes, of course, I’ll speak with security… do you need anything Coral?” he addressed one of the nurses helping Robin.

“Bring a good mug of tea, not too hot, it’ll help calm you down, right sweetie?” she rubbed Robin’s back soothingly, and the male nurse rushed out. Strike sighed and turned to Robin, who at last breathed more easily.

“You okay Robin?” he asked, sliding his oxygen mask back on. She nodded, leaning back against the pillows.

“Thanks, Strike,” she murmured, a little breathless but with half a smirk.

“Anytime.”

As soon as the nurses left them alone, after cleaning the floor and handing them both cups of tea, not too warm because lately neither particularly appreciated warm liquids, and breakfast, Strike carefully moved to Robin’s bed, adjusting the new dark blue dressing gown Lucy had gotten him tight around him, and thankful he was back on boxers, because he really didn’t want to flash Robin anything. He sat on the edge of her bed as she ate a croissant.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked without preamble, a mug of tea between his hands, eyebrows scowling lightly to make sure she understood he wasn’t fooling around. Robin sighed and half smiled lightly.

“I’m fine, thank you. I just tried to shout at him and I bloody couldn’t. You broke my ex-husband’s nose.”

“Would you have preferred I’d broken his balls? ‘Cause I can take notes for next time…” Robin couldn’t help laughing and then coughing as it was too much, and Strike smirked, loving to be the one to make her laugh.

“The tosser wants to make _me_ his lover now. Married her late in June, had a son with her in September, and he’s unhappy,” said Robin. “Thinks big of himself, thinking I’d break my every ethical rude for what? To shag _him_? Please,” she snorted, shaking her head.

Strike nodded, thoughtful.

“So you weren’t bluffing, you really don’t… feel anything for him any more?” Robin gave him her best ‘are you serious now’ glance, but he shrugged.

“Come on Cormoran, I haven’t loved him in years, okay? Before I even caught him cheating again, the entire marriage was… a huge mistake,” as much as he knew he should be sad for her, Strike couldn’t help feeling a dragon wakening inside of him. “I’m not attracted to him in slightest, not in love… he’s just a bothersome fly, if you know what I mean, and every remaining bit of slight affection and respect I held for him, for all he’s done for me, he just ruined it. What he’s told me today… he couldn’t fall lower than that. And I don’t forget easily.” She said sincerely, and resumed her breakfast.

They finished eating quietly, each lost in their own thoughts, and then Strike’s mind kept drifting back to his dreams, or nightmares, until the unavoidable truth sunk in his stomach just as he put his breakfast tray aside, and suddenly he felt sick.

“Hey, are you okay?” Robin caught his expression quickly, reaching a hand out to touch his arm gently. Strike turned to her, and he took a deep, shaky breath.

“Robin… the explosion, the fire… there’s no more building to go back to, isn’t it?” he murmured in a quiet voice full of dread, and Robin’s expression shifted, as she looked at him with pain across her face, and remained in silence. “Robin, I need you to say it.” He said at last.

Robin looked intently at him, sitting on the edge of her bed, suddenly appearing a decade older, with the oxygen cannula over his moustache and deep bags under his eyes, and she took a deep breath, putting her breakfast tray aside and fixing her dressing gown before sliding to sit next to him, taking his hand in hers before locking eyes with him. She looked like she was about to tell him his lover was dead, or something, and Strike felt his stomach knot.

“I truly barely remember anything, but everyone’s been telling me a lot,” said Robin with a low voice. “I wanted to tell you, but when they told me how bad you were doing, how… the doctors had even prepared them for your death at some point… I knew we couldn’t tell you, we were all afraid the truth would be too much to bear.”

“So you lied to me?” he asked, softly, and Robin let out a long sight.

“I’d do anything to keep you sane Cormoran, and that includes lying, if necessary. But I don’t like it more than you,” said Robin, and squeezed his hand gently. “Look uh… I think you and I were investigating something after hours, something we didn’t want anyone to know for some reason, not even Pat. Something that might’ve angered someone enough to try to kill us, because I don’t think in my heart that this was some tragic accident. I think on the 9th we saw Pat go, and then for some reason I went to the loo, because I remember bits of waking up in a room in shambles that really resembles our loo. I remember water falling on me from somewhere and… smoke, and flames. Heat, beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. And then… I don’t remember seeing you. I think I returned to the office for you—,”

“You were shouting my name…” Strike recalled, his dreams beginning to make sense. “Calling for me… didn’t you say something like… we live together or die together?”

Robin shrugged.

“Sounds like something I’d say.”

“I remember feeling a pull from my arms, and your Narciso perfume…”

“Vanessa and Eric said they saw me come out of the building leaning forward to support you on my back, with your arms over my shoulders,” said Robin, nodding. “I don’t remember, I passed out right after. Cormoran… they say there’s nothing left,” Strike gasped, and leaned his forehead against his free hand, elbow on his thigh. “Apparently it was two explosions, one in our office and one in Mr Crowdy’s office, the firefighters and the police are investigating how anybody could do that. But it does mean you and I were basically trapped upstairs, so I’ve got no idea how we made it downstairs. But it took five minutes for the whole building to be wrapped up in flames so thickly it ate the wood in seconds and… then everything crumbled to ashes, just moments after we were lifted into ambulances. They describe it as a giant bonfire, it affected surrounding buildings too, they had to evacuate four. Everybody says it’s a miracle we’re alive…”

“Miracle?” Strike’s eyes filled with tears, and Robin’s heart broke for him. She didn’t remember the last time she saw him cry, but she always found that when men cried, it seemed particularly tragic to her. “Robin, I’m homeless again. I’ve lost everything… to hell with the agency, we don’t need the office to work and everything can be replaced, specially if all the files were digitalized… but my things…” he sniffled, and his voice broke. “I know nobody sees me as someone sentimental about objects, and you know I didn’t own much, but the little I owned… the very few gifts I’ve ever had, the only things from my mother that I owned, stuff Joan gave me when I was little, the cane and the concerts you got me… all the pictures, the drawings Jack made me…” a knot settled in his throat and fresh tears streamed down his cheeks as he let a sob out. “What are my memories if I’ve lost everything that vouched for them, Robin? The very little I had,” he sobbed, “the… very little I cared about… all I’ve worked for… and it’s all gone…”

“I’m so sorry,” Robin couldn’t help beginning to cry too, and pressed her forehead against his shoulder, clenching his hand hard on one hand and driving the other around his back, holding him close as his body shook and he mourned. “Come here…” she moved both arms around him, and let him lean against her and cry on his shoulder, which sounded specially tragic given how hoarse their voices had gotten, with burning in their throats and mostly lungs. “You’re not alone…”

A  couple of hours later, Robin found herself staring at the ceiling while she lied on the very edge of Strike’s bed with an arm around Strike as he slept into the crook of his neck with his oxygen mask on. She could do without oxygen support at this point, as long as she stayed calm and collected, and had convinced the nurses and their doctor, when they had come for rounds, to let her stay with him, explaining how distressed he’d gotten over the loss of everything he had owned, his two properties and all of his belongings. Robin had also texted their friends and family to let them know what had happened and that Strike was truly, truly heartbroken.

As she browsed for new properties in her phone, she glanced over at the small suitcase her parents had brought her with her toiletries, favourite books and some stuff, and felt a pang of pain in her chest that had nothing to do with the burns. Strike had none of that. His army stuff, his photographs, his childhood memoirs, his clothes, shoes, toiletries, drawings, favourite books and old inherited music and vinyls were all gone. She knew Strike wasn’t superficial and he had learned to live life with little things, plus he had never really owned much, so she knew the little he owned were things he truly cared about and that really had sentimental value, so this seemed twice as unfair being Strike.

With a few properties chosen that she planned on visiting once she was discharged, Robin put her phone down just as there was a soft knocking on the door. She looked down on Strike, deep asleep from pure distress and grief, her hand buried in his hair making small, soothing circles, and back at the wooden door.

“Come in,” she said, loudly enough to be heard. The door half opened and Nick and Ilsa peeked inside, glancing sadly at them before coming in, carrying a couple big boxes that they gently left on the windowsill. “What’s that?” she asked with curiosity.

“Well, we’ve been meaning to make some space for the baby’s things, so we’ve been looking at our old stuff, and realized we have a bunch of things we’d like Corm to have. We had thousands of photographs of us three and even some with you that we got copies of for him, old tickets of concerts and films we went off to together,” said Ilsa, sitting by Strike’s bed, and Robin grinned, understanding what they’d done.

“Yes, just a few belongings from the past that we thought he’d like,” Nick shrugged, sitting at the feet of the bed and glancing uneasily at Strike. “He’s really down, isn’t he?”

“He lost everything he had from Leda, so yes,” Robin sighed, taking her hand from his hair and setting it on his shoulder, his hands dead weight on her belly. “But what you guys have done is really nice, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. Is he going to stay with you for the time being?”

“We spoke with Lucy and determined it’s the best option, yes,” said Nick with a nod. “We’re closer the hospital for his check-ups and our guest room is in the ground floor, he can’t really climb stairs so soon with the shape of his lungs. And we have a downstairs bathroom too that can be all for him.” Robin remembered, having lived there for quite a long time when she had divorced Matthew.

“We don’t need the room for months anyway, we can keep the baby in our room for at least the first year easily,” added Ilsa. “There’s no hurry for Corm to leave. You’ll be good with Max, yes? Or are you heading north for a bit?”

“No, I’ll return to Earl’s Court, yes,” Robin nodded. “I can’t wait to get my hands back on the agency, start feeling any sort of control over the situation. How’s the fundraiser going?”

“Let me check,” Ilsa pulled her phone, and after a few moments, she read. “So far it’s gone up to over 300.000 pounds, which is quite incredible if you ask me. Unfortunately, the big money comes from the Rokebys mostly, but hey…” she shrugged. “Can’t get picky, can we?”

“Absolutely can’t. That’s a shit ton of money, I’m impressed! Didn’t think so many people cared _that_ much!”

“Well the council has agreed on giving grants to every family affected, depending on the level of damage of their property,” Ilsa explained. “I think it’s five thousand if the apartment suffered minimal damage, and up to ten thousand if it requires significant and costly repairs, plus temporary relocation if needed. The government had to intervene to grant it, as whole Denmark Street has been protesting and everything, because it still hasn’t been confirmed it’s not terrorism, even if we know it wasn’t. They’ve been complaining the old buildings haven’t received proper maintenance from the institutions and if they had this wouldn’t have happened, and they’ve made the politicians sweat cold enough to grant the money, and since Corm has lost his entire property but has an insurance, and we’ve said we’ll house him, because he can’t really be left alone somewhere in his state, we’ve managed to negotiate for twenty thousand pounds to help him find another place to live, because they’re not rebuilding anything there anytime soon.”

“Ilsa fought it, actually,” said Nick looking proudly at his wife. “You should’ve seen her, she made those politicians sweat cold and fear for their lives. They didn’t know what was coming.”

Robin chuckled, and Ilsa smiled softly.

“Anyway, he’s got that, granted, the money was put into his account this morning,” said Ilsa, continuing. “And then there’s the fundraiser we made, asking people to donate with the classical messages of ‘help a war veteran who’s devoted his life to finding justice for people like Lula Landry, Owen Quine, etc., etc., start over after losing his flat and business in explosions’, or ‘Cormoran Strike’s fighting for his life, help make sure he has a home to go back to’, and we’ve sent emails, called… every number in Strike’s phone was contacted, each and every one, even old military contacts. We even put it on the newspapers.”

“That friend of yours, Culpepper, Pat had the idea,” added Nick, and gestured headlines with his hands. “Fundraiser started to bring Strike Agency back afloat, grant war veteran turned detective Cormoran Strike a new lease in life. Apparently Culpepper owed you guys big time.”

Robin nodded, her jaw slightly dropped.

“Most donations are small, some friends, old colleagues, strangers who respected and admired the job you do and wanted to help out, former clients donating in hundreds were more generous, but it was all good,” added Ilsa.

“We all of course donated too, also many of your family and friends,” said Nick. “And we received phone calls and emails from friends from the army, old colleagues and things like that, people who had heard on the news, because explosions like that have been all over the news for weeks, and wanted to know how they could help. When we told them Strike had lost everything and we mainly needed money to buy him another place to live, an office, belongings because he’s got none… people opened their wallets big time, all completely altruistically.”

“That’s so good,” Robin nodded, impressed, feeling warm inside at people’s kindness.

“We still get new donations daily, smaller, but some of the biggest were,” Ilsa looked back at her phone. “150.000 from Al Rokeby, 30.000 from Prudence Donleavy, 45.000 from Izzy Chiswell, even 12.000 from Leonora Quine, she’s clearly grateful you got her out of prison,” she smirked at Robin, whose jaw had heavily dropped.

“Cormoran’s going to have a hard time gulping that, he never accepts anything from anyone, he hates feeling like he owes stuff,” said Robin.

“I know, which is why we’re going to make sure he can’t say no, we’re already looking for offices. He never has to know exactly how much money he got, right? We’ll just give him a list of people to thank. And we made it very clear over and over it had to be completely altruistic, so nobody expects anything in exchange,” said Nick. “I say you guys take it and go for an upgrade. Get a bigger office, add another employee even, and when you open the new office, you make a party and invite everyone who donated to make it happen. Unfortunately it does mean Oggy’s going to have to talk with his family.”

“But we’re not just going to tell him they donated big time, we’ll say yes they donated big but guess who else did? People you like such as Graham Hardacre, Max, Vanessa, Eric, relatives of your employees who want them to keep a job, good friends like good old Dave, or us. He can compensate with hella good birthday presents this year,” said Ilsa.

“We’ll settle with having a proper Uncle Corm for the baby, actually,” added Nick. “Girl you convince him not to be such a grumpy bastard about this, he’ll take anything from you.”

Robin snorted a laugh, but nodded.

“Guys I don’t know how to thank you for this, it’s bigger and way more meaningful that I could possibly express,” said Robin, eyes damp. “You keep coming in big for our rescue when we need you… you’re the best friends we could ask for, really.”

“You’d do the same,” Ilsa squeezed her hand.

“Bloody right,” Robin smiled affectionately, and looked at Strike. “I’ve never seen him so upset, he even wanted Jack’s drawings back. Said he’s a big boy now and won’t give him anything any more.”

“He’s a big softie deep, very deep inside,” Nick half smiled.

With a nod, Robin’s thumb gently stroked Strike’s grown beard around his oxygen mask, surprised by how soft it felt, in spite of how curly it was. Then, a thought came into her mind and she frowned, turning around back to Nick and Ilsa, who seemed to be trying hard to pretend not to notice her affection towards her business partner and friend.

“Did Charlotte or Matthew donate too?”

Ilsa and Nick exchanged a nervous glance before looking back at her to answer.

“Charlotte put in thirty thousand pounds, and Matthew added a couple thousand pounds last week,” said Ilsa at last. “We never contacted them but… people see. And since it’s a bank transfer, we see the names.”

Inhaling a deep breath and clenching her jaw, Robin nodded.

“All right,” she said at last. “Well, thanks for the huge effort, guys. I’ll make sure Cormoran appreciates it properly. Oh, I didn’t tell you what else happened today! Matthew came by,” she added with a hint of amusement.

“Really? What for?” Ilsa scowled deeply.

“He said he only married Sarah for their son, but that he wants to be with me and proposed I’d be his new lover.”

“You’re kidding!” said Nick in disbelief, his brown eyes fixed on Robin in astonishment. “What?”

“And we started to argue, which woke Cormoran up… and he punched him,” said Robin, unable to hide her satisfied smirk. She was never one for violence and she could defend herself, and yet seeing Strike valued her so much he would lose his temper, fresh from sleep, at the sight of her ex enough to break his nose was oddly flattering. “He broke his nose, as a matter of fact.”

Nick sniggered and Ilsa’s jaw dropped.

“Oh my God what was he thinking? Don’t laugh, what if Matthew sues?” she slapped her husband’s belly lightly, but he couldn’t help himself, and even Robin chuckled.

“He’s not going to sue, he’d have to admit what he was doing here.”

“Okay, fine,” Ilsa sighed and half smiled. “Gotta admit I wish I had had the honour too…”

“See you can’t be mad,” Nick grinned, kissing her cheek. “Ten points for team Ellacott!”

They were just laughing when there was a knock on the door and Vanessa peeked, looking pale and so serious Robin stopped laughing immediately.

  
  


  
  



	4. No truce

**Chapter 4: No truce.**

“Vanessa, everything okay?”

“I’m so, so sorry Robin. I did everything I could…” biting her lip, Vanessa moved aside and a tall and broad man in a suit entered the room. He was hairless looked rough, his glacier blue eyes seizing Robin up as he showed a police badge.

“Detective Inspector Anthony Reynolds, from the Met’s Insurance Fraud Enforcement Department, I’m here to talk with Ms Robin Ellacott and Mr Cormoran Strike, if it’s okay?”

Robin’s blood froze and she went from looking at Vanessa, who seemed sunken, to Ilsa, who frowned.

“I am their lawyer, Ilsa Herbert,” said Ilsa spontaneously, even though she didn’t regularly tackle fraud. “Can’t this wait until they’re discharged? As you can see, one of my client’s is resting.”

“With all due respect Ms—,”

“Mrs,” Ilsa interjected coldly, staring at him like she stared at predatory criminals in trials.

“Mrs Herbert, but we have waited over a month, and it’s getting urgent now. If Ms Ellacott could please awake Mr Strike…”

“Why so much urgency? My clients aren’t involved with any insurance fraud.”

“We suspect they are,” said DI Reynolds. “And the fact that their lawyer was here and ready in advance tells me this must not be so odd for your clients.”

“Mrs Herbert happens to be a close friend,” Robin intervened, and gently shook Strike. “Cormoran, wake up, come on…” she murmured, rousing him from sleep.

“What?” Strike yawned, looking up, confused, and then turning to see DI Reynolds and frowning as he stood up. “What’s going on?”

“This is DI Reynolds from the Met’s Insurance Fraud Enforcement Department,” Robin murmured. “He wants to talk to us.”

“Nick honey why don’t you wait outside, uh?” Ilsa addressed her husband suddenly warm and affective. “You and Vanessa can catch up outside while we resolve this thing.”

“Sure,” Nick stood up and, glaring at DI Reynolds, encouraged Vanessa to follow him outside.

“Right, so,” Strike cleared his throat, sliding his oxygen mask down to be heard better. “What’s this about DI Reynolds?”

“As part of the investigation that’s still on the works about the explosions and subsequent fire in your Denmark Street building, the Met has concluded the explosions were caused by IEDs triggered by remote control and set approximately in either your attic or your office, and another in Mr Crowdy’s Digital Design office. As we investigate how could two IEDs be placed so easily and with nobody noticing in two properties occupied most of the day most of the week, specially considering you guys are detectives and it seems hard to believe someone did this so easily under your noses, we have been forced to consider you could’ve been responsible. Mr Crowdy earns nothing from this, but you both had placed your signature on an insurance for your office only weeks before the explosions, an insurance that’s well out of the average, covering everything, including bomb explosions. If that’s not suspicious enough, turns out the insurance could be paying you up to a hundred thousand pounds for the damages to the office alone, plus an extra for the damages to the attic above property of Mr Strike, which he insured separately to cover the same things with the same company.”

“So we got lucky getting properly insured in advance, now that’s a crime?” Strike grumbled.

“It is if it turns out this, as the Met suspects, is an elaborate effort to commit insurance fraud to collect the big money and find a better office and a new home for Mr Strike, considering your building had been sold to a developers and your rent was to expire next June, kicking you both to the street. The building was going to be taken down then, properly,” said DI Reynolds. “And you knew this. Our suspicion is that Mr Strike elaborated the plan and Ms Ellacott, described by your employees as a hard working, loyal partner, agreed to help. We’ve interviewed your employees, who all said you both had been staying at the office past closing time for several days and neither knows what you were working in, so our suspicions are that you were plotting this, and on the 9th perhaps accidentally or purposefully, you triggered the explosions.”

“DI Reynolds, why would my clients implode their building with them inside? I’d take me an hour at must to gather all the evidence showing the gravity of their injuries and how this nearly killed them, they made it out alive by the skin of their teeth, it makes no sense to consider them responsible when they had the most to lose, including their own lives.”

“We think something went wrong, that’s what your clients have to respond for,” said DI Reynolds. “Perhaps the bombs were detonated on accident, perhaps their proven lack of expertise in them made them detonate too soon, or in bigger ways than intended—,”

“Let’s get this over with,” said Strike, interrupting him, already with a plan in mind. Robin and Ilsa turned to him, surprised. “My partner and I hired the insurance on our office following a number of accidents related to the age of the building, which dates from 1960s, besides stunts related to our job. A few years back we were attacked by murderer John Bristow and we suffered property damage, on different occasions people damaged our locks and entered the office while we were gone, on another occasion someone entered the building and damaged our walls with a knife engraving something, and we’re renting, so obviously we had to pay every damage to our landlord from our own pocket, and we have already spent quite the money there, our landlord will tell you all about it. This made Ms Ellacott and I begin considering an insurance years ago, but our economical situation wasn’t good enough. Finally, in November we had floods due to a pipe leak because they’re so old, they filled our walls with holes trying to locate the lead, cost us hundreds of pounds, and it was the last straw, so we decided that for the few months we had left, why not get a proper insurance and the time we had left live it calmly. Besides, it was a package, they offered us insuring our employees and the office all at once, and we were very interested on insuring our employees. Both Ms Ellacott and I have sustained quite the injuries on the job, been assaulted, Ms Ellacott’s been nearly killed twice, so bloody right once our accountant told us we were finally good to afford a proper insurance I was going to afford the best I could find, we have four employees now, two of them are fathers, we need to make sure if anything happens to them on the job they’ll be covered and helped economically. You can ask our insurance, there was only one package that included stabbings and shootings, which seemed necessary for our line of work, and it happened to include explosives, and the same that applied to employees automatically applied to the office, I didn’t have a say. They made us a special price because they saw they were making good money with us, and offered me a discount if I added any more properties, so I added my flat, which is right above. Or was. Figured if I was insuring the office I might as well get my flat in the deal too, that was all.”

“Exactly,” Robin nodded. “Mr Strike and I searched for insurances for a week, that’s what our employees probably caught us doing. We chose the cheapest that would include serious injury, because we’ve been stabbed, nearly shot… it can get very dangerous in our job, you know? And like Mr Strike says, the agency offered us a deal to include any properties we had, so we did. We hoped to renovate the insurance in the new office once we moved out.”

“Then how do you explain the strange extra working time behind your employees’ backs?”

Strike snorted a laugh.

“They’re our bloody employees! We don’t owe them explanations for what we do in our free time, besides, Robin and I commonly work weekends and even nights, and don’t go around informing our employees, but our families and friends will all confirm with you we’re workaholics and pretty much lived in the office. And that goes without mentioning Robin and I have been working together for five years, we’re best friends, we did this alone for two years before new employees came in, so we often like to have some alone time for old times’ sakes, you know, have a beer with your friend and colleague, discuss the week, cases… our employees could’ve caught us revising accounting, old cases, revisiting evidence, preparing a file… tons of things. We are the bosses, nothing odd with two bosses needing time to meet alone and make joint decisions about their business.” Strike explained, making an effort to breathe as he spoke. “I doubt it can be considered insurance fraud if you pay an insurance that wants to cover for explosions and you end up needing to actually use it, mister.”

“Agreed,” said Ilsa. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” DI Reynolds finished writing down his notes on a notepad and looked back up at them, inexpressive. “What can you remember of the 9th of December?”

Robin and Strike exchanged a look.

“In all honesty, close to nothing,” said Robin. “As our medical records will confirm to you, we suffer severe amnesia due to the brain damage we sustained during the explosions, plus severe smoke inhalation and CO2 poisoning, the last clear memories we have go as far back as late November. But we both remember flashes of the fire.”

“Such as? Anything you know it’s useful to the Met.”

“I remember waking up in the bathroom, our office didn’t have one so we had to use the one in the landing between our office and Mr Crowdy’s, which half-crumbled down with the explosions,” explained Robin. “Then I only have a vague memory of realizing everything was on fire, and kicking down the bathroom door, which was stuck due to the swelling from the heat, and then going to try and find Cormoran, but that’s all.”

“I have a vague recollection of Robin calling my name, of being surrounded by flames and pinned to the floor by a large weight that’s left me second degree burns and cracked ribs on my back, plus a severe concussion I’m recovering from and which required brain surgery,” said Strike. “I can vaguely remember Robin helped me out of there somehow, that she was lifting me on her back, trying to give me reassuring words. I remember my lungs burning and being unable to breathe.”

“Yes, me too,” Robin nodded with a sigh.

“Very well,” DI Reynolds noted it down. “Ms Ellacott, what’s your knowledge of explosive devices?”

Robin frowned deeply.

“None,” she said simply. “I’m specialised in the psychology aspect of investigating, I’ve got half a psychology degree, no police or military experience and certainly no idea how explosive devices work.”

“How about you, Mr Strike?”

Strike pointed to his stump, out in the open on the bed.

“I’ve got general knowledge, because my leg was blown up by an IED eight years ago,” Strike grumbled. “But I was only an investigator for the military police, and I was not specialised on explosives. I could perhaps disconnect one if it was a very easy simple one, and only maybe, but make one? Not even with the book open in front. Not that I would dare to come any close to explosives knowingly, I’ve got PTSD, I don’t even come close to fireworks, a bunch of people will vouch for that. Last fifth of November I spent the weekend in St Mawes, Cornwall, precisely because I can’t stand so much as the noise or smell of explosives, my Uncle Ted can tell you we were in his boat, and my bank can confirm the transfer to pay the train ticket.”

“That’s true, Cormoran can’t stand to be close anything that could explode, not even fireworks. The idea of him creating an IED is unfathomable, any psychologist would tell you,” confirmed Robin, crossing arms over her chest.

“All right, I had to ask,” DI Reynolds wrote that down too. “I’ll confirm details with your insurance company, your doctors, your accountant, your bank and the fire brigade, and if we can’t detect anything unusual, we’ll give the insurance company green light to pay you. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.”

“What happens when my clients are cleared from insurance fraud, will anyone continue investigating why the explosion happened? Because we’d really like to know who screwed my clients’ up, Mr Strike’s lost all his belongings,” said Ilsa, fixing her eyes on DI Reynolds as if he was a lamb and she was a hyena.

“If your clients are cleared and the Met can’t find any reason to investigate them further for imploding a building, then the Met’s finest would launch a whole investigation automatically, to determine first whether this was attempted murder on Mr Crowdy, Ms Ellacott, or Mr Strike, or instead just a simple act of terrorism, and secondly they’d find the person or persons responsible,” replied DI Reynolds, closing his notebook. “Thank you all for your time, we’ll talk more if necessary. I’ll have you know…” he stopped for a second, thoughtful. “I am on your side, the whole Met is. You’ve done some pretty big things, London respects you, my daughters could only go out at night calmly after you caught the Ripper, but I have to do my job and they’d come for our necks if we didn’t cross off the possibility of insurance fraud. I wish you a quick and full recovery, good day.”

After murmuring thanks and seeing him go, Robin and Strike ultimately turned to each other.

“IEDs? Is somebody trying to put us in prison for fraud?” asked Robin with a frown.

“Worse,” said Strike. “DI Reynolds was right in one thing, something went wrong that night, because we were meant to have been killed, Robin. Somebody wickedly smart put IEDs under our very own noses, and really wants me, if not the both of us, dead, and if we’re not… it means this isn’t over.”

  
  



	5. The smell of freedom

** C hapter 5: The smell of freedom. **

“Mum I am _fine_ ,” it was about the fifth time Robin reassured her mother. After thirty-six days in hospital, she was finally getting discharged that Saturday morning, much to Strike’s mixed emotions that included relief she was that much better and sadness he was going to be lonely.

S he had been getting dressed in the bathroom next to their room, and when she finally emerged out, twenty-two pounds lighter and yet still beautiful in Strike’s eyes, her parents weren’t convinced she was ready to go home.

“Well, are you sure you don’t want to come to Masham for a while?” Linda tried to adjust Robin’s jumper, which inevitably looked too big now that Robin had lost so much weight. Strike himself was already twenty-five pounds lighter, which added to his weight, gave him an odd and somewhat unhealthy look of a tall skeleton. “I could cook you healthy meals to make sure you recover the weight soon, you could go on gentle jogs around the village, and the pure air would surely do you go.”

“As tempted as I admittedly am, I need to stay. The agency can’t go on with both bosses MIA,” Robin brushed her hair, and re-adjusted her watch, that never seemed tightened enough now. She hated being so slim, and vowed to never do stupid salad diets again. Why had she ever wanted to get so skinny, again? “I need to take over, find us a new office, and—,” she interrupted herself to cough into her elbow. “Continue recovering with the doctors I’ve got here. Besides, just because the IFED has deemed us innocent of insurance fraud it doesn’t mean the Met won’t require me around. Not to mention someone’s trying to kill at least one of us, and I can’t sit and relax until that person’s been arrested.”

Linda sighed but nodded, wrapping an arm around her daughter.

“Don’t worry Mrs Ellacott, we’ll look after her,” Ilsa promised with a gentle smile, standing in a corner. “Max is a hell of a cook too, surely Robin will be back to normal weight in a matter of days.”

Max was currently at work, so Ilsa was going to drive Robin home, help her get reacquainted and they’d return to visit Strike in the afternoon.

Patting her pockets to make sure she didn’t leave anything behind, Robin sighed and looked up at Strike. She hated to go and leave him behind to a level that the day before she had attempted to extend her hospital stay by pretending her cold was wor se , but she had no fever any more, so that hadn’t gone down well.

“Okay, I guess it’s time to go,” Robin smiled sadly at Strike, approaching him. He sat on the bed and he looked saddened too, but he was nowhere near discharge yet, as much as he’d even insinuated self-discharging. However, knowing he had nowhere to go, which was also depressing, he figured he might as well stay. “I’ll see you later, okay? Be a good patient, and you’ll be out of here too, soon. I’ll pick you up myself.”

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” Strike forced a smile. “You enjoy freedom for the both of us, don’t spend it babysitting me here.”

“Oh, I’ll be bringing tons of work and enslaving your brain, no worries,” Robin pulled him up, now he had his prosthesis on, and hugged him, closing her eyes against his shoulder. Strike squeezed her close, closing his eyes against her hair and inhaling the Narciso perfume with a hint of hospital smells. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, I won’t rest until you get your life back,” she promised. “I’m so glad you’re alive, Cormoran. So fucking glad.” She added in a whisper, a knot in her throat.

“Me too,” Strike murmured into her ear. “I can’t lose you, Robin,” he blurted out, knowing he’d already been too close to not getting to say it. “I can lose it all, but if I don’t lose you then the most important thing is safe,” Robin nodded, taking a deep breathe to avoid crying, clenching a fistful of his gown into her hand. “We live together or die together, right?”

Robin separated enough to look at him with tears in her eyes, their foreheads pressed together, and she smiled sadly, nodding.

“Absolutely, no regrets,” she reassured him. “Come back home soon, _partner_. We need you, okay? I need you.”

“You’ve got my word.” Robin kissed his cheek hard and gave him a last squeeze before pulling away. “Bring us a Doom Bar next time?”

Robin chuckled.

“If I leave any left, sure,” she joked, and waved him goodbye.

Entering her flat and scratching the overexcited Wolfgang felt great, and then Robin thought of a hot bath, but when her hand touched the water coming off the tap, she decided she wouldn’t be enjoying hot things for a while, and instead took a lukewarm shower, happy to rub off the hospital smell and feel more like herself. She knew Hardy, who she had met the day before, would stay with Strike and keep him company, and Nick would hang around too all he could, and Dave Polworth was arriving from St Mawes that morning, so Strike would surely be well entertained. Still, she couldn’t help feeling sad he had been left behind.

As Robin got dressed, lamenting the coat she had lost in the fire -and Strike’s long coat, she realized with sudden alarm-,  she noticed Ilsa wasn’t alone upstairs in the kitchen. She had a faint idea of hearing Vanessa and Lucy having a laugh. Ilsa and Robin had driven Linda and Michael to the train station before coming to Earl’s Court, because they couldn’t afford to spend more time in London leaving their Yorkshire jobs unattended, and Robin hadn’t expected more visitors, although she was happy about that.

“Hi there,” Robin grinned entering her kitchen, seeing that, indeed, some of her best friends plus Michelle Greenstreet, their latest employee who had quickly become one of Robin’s best friends, were cooking lunch together.

“There she is!” Michelle rushed to hug her. “How was the grumpy boss today?”

“Grumpy,” Robin joked with a chuckle.

“I thought you’d be ready to spend the day in bed,” Lucy commented, surprised to see her dressed.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been over a month in bed, I’m full of pent-up energy,” Robin joined them having tea around the kitchen table while lunch cooked in the oven. “Did anybody bring my Land Rover back from Denmark Street?”

“Yes, your Dad parked it in the garage here,” replied Ilsa, “none of us could drive it. And Nick took Strike’s BMW into our garage.”

“You guys think of everything,” Robin marvelled. “Thank you.”

“Just don’t get blown-up,” said Ilsa. “Are you thinking of going on a road trip already?”

“Not really… I want to see Denmark Street.”

“Are you sure?” interjected Vanessa, her warm eyes on Robin. “Robin, it is very, very shocking to see even for us. It can’t be easy.”

“I know it’ll be hard, but I have to,” Robin sighed deeply. “Look, Cormoran’s going to want to see it, and I’ll need to do it with him. If I get over the shock now, I’ll be able to stay strong for him.”

“He’s so lucky to have you,” Lucy smiled softly. “Even if we all totally thought you were together, _together_ and you had us fooled.”

Robin snorted into her tea, but seeing how her friends looked so intently at her, as if expecting her to blurt out all her feelings, she rolled eyes.

“Seriously women, he’s my _partner_. Of course I love him, but as my best friend, he’s saved my life a few times and it’s only fair I do the same,” said Robin, trying not to think of how the word ‘love’ had rolled down her tongue so easily. “We have each other’s backs, we have to be close or else we’d fail.”

“Come on, don’t you even think of dating him a little?” Lucy nudged playfully. “He’s not handsome like Matthew, but he surely has some type of handsomeness, right? And he’s smart, brave, he treats you right…”

“Any woman will be lucky to have him,” said Robin trying to stop her from planning their wedding. “I’m sorry Lucy, but we’re just what we are. Can’t force what’s not there.”

“If you say so,” Vanessa winked, her engagement ring flashing in her dark finger, and Robin was reminded she was the only single person in the group.

Vanessa’s wedding would take place next month, to her long-time boyfriend Oliver Bargate, a forensic analyst for the Metropolitan Police, Ilsa and Lucy were happily married for many years now and with children even, and Michelle Greenstreet had a girlfriend, Amanda Parker, who was an artist and truly respected her horrendous working hours. They had no children and no plans for marriage yet, but Robin knew they did have a fat velvet black cat called Merlin which they both spoiled tremendously. Suddenly, she felt very self-conscious about her single status.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to feel such a way for long, because soon they busied in conversation, lunch, and then they decided to go to Denmark Street together. A feeling of dread mixed with trepidation had begun to settle in her stomach as Ilsa parked just around the Palace Theatre in Shaftestbury Avenue and they began to walk under a soft drizzle up Charing Cross Road. Turning right into Denmark Street, which was no longer sealed off for safety, their conversation got quieted down and Robin noticed that the street definitely liked the life it used to have. She purposely looked down, taking deep breaths and leading the way resolute, until the pavement was cut in an area where it seemed ripped off the ground.

With her heart racing, Robin stepped on the bare ground, mostly sand, and tuned into where she knew their building door and the 12 Bar Cafe should be, and instead she was surprised to find nothing. It would undeniably have been way more shocking to find a gigantic pile of ash and rubble smelling of burnt materials and still smoking, as her friends and family had likely seen, but at this point all there was left for her to see was a barren ground, a large expanse of terrain, as if their building had been abducted from one day to another. There was a large fence so nobody could trespass into what now was the developers’ plot of land, and if it wasn’t because the ground looked distinctly dark and full of the sand that had likely been used to cool it down, and the walls of the surrounding buildings’ facades were darkened by the smoke and flames, it’d be hard to tell there had been a large fire there.

“God…,” Robin murmured, her eyes going from the ground, where the force of the explosion had removed a large patch of pavement and had damaged the walls from surrounding buildings that had been pressed against theirs, to up in the air, where her office had been. She could still see the small hallway, hear the music from the 12 Bar Cafe, see the spiralling stairs and see the office, Strike’s attic above… She wondered if this resembled what amputees felt about their limbs. The strangeness and shock of not seeing anything to account for what you knew should be there, as if it had never happened and your memory was just a dream, while still remembering, feeling and sensing so clearly what had been.

“Looks better now,” Vanessa commented softly. “All the rain’s done it good, doesn’t stink any more.”

“There’s literally nothing to see,” said Robin, looking up and down the emptiness. “It feels like a tasteless joke.”

She had imagined herself breaking down in tears. She had imagined indescribable pain. She had even imagined, perhaps, the possibility of memories being triggered back into the surface. But now, Robin was surprised to find none of those things and instead confusion, shock, and anger took over. Whoever had wanted them dead had nearly managed it.

Feeling strangely disconnected from reality, like going through the motions, trapped in a pain and confusion only Strike could share with her, Robin insisted on taking the rest of the day for herself. She had a long nap on her own bed, and then mindlessly wandered around the street without direction, until she found herself face to face with the shop window of a men’s clothing store. Robin thought of the agency’s bank account, whose VISA card was in her wallet in her pocket, and which, thanks to their insurance paying plus their savings and what their employees had managed to make in their absence, contained large sums of money. She knew this wouldn’t be an agency’s expenditure, but at the same time, it felt like this shouldn’t come out of Strike’s own pocket, and considering the account would be pretty rich once they put in the corresponding sum from the fundraiser, whose collected money was to be divided two thirds for the agency and one for Strike alone, she figured the agency could perfectly well afford to make its founder and boss a few presents. It’d be the agency’s Christmas present, all the employees would be on board.

And so, she walked into the store and found a suited assistant who politely welcomed her.

“Hi, I was looking for a man’s long coat, dark,” said Robin, suddenly not feeling so lost any more, but knowing exactly what she wanted. “It’s for a very big man, and very broad. He’s like this tall,” she extended her arm above her, “with very broad shoulders, bit of a boxer’s body if you know what I mean. He had a beautiful coat he loved, long and dark grey, but there was a fire in his property and he lost it, I was looking forward to gift him a replacement?”

“Sure, we have quite the selection, if you come over here… do you want it with lapels, big pockets, any sort of decoration?” they walked into de depths of the store.

“Uh, lapels, like a suit, not too small buttons because he has big fingers, large pockets, inside pockets too, and all very sober, nothing shiny or that looks too luxurious or fancy, he’s of sober tastes,” except when he’s drunk, she reflected. “And make it a warm one, he spends a lot of time in the street for work and he’s Southerner, so he gets cold easily, absolutely hates the winter…”

“Lucky man he’s got someone who knows him well,” the assistant smiled and dug between some coats. “I think this one should be perfect. I’ll give you the receipt so he can return it if not, but… what do you think?” he lifted a coat up and Robin, for the first time in what felt like forever, grinned. It was a nearly identical copy to Strike’s old one, except it looked newer and seemed to have a bigger percentage of cotton, so it’d surely be more expensive. She took it to feel its softness and weight, and nodded, satisfied.

“This is the one.”

A  few hours later, Robin walked into St Mary’s hospital, carrying tons of bags with her. Luckily she had taken her Land Rover, but she wanted to show Strike what he’d bought. Finding the room they had previously shared with the ease of someone who’s lived in a hospital for far too long, Robin knocked and as Strike motioned for her to come in, she opened and smiled, seeing her partner was in bed, calmly reading now that it was late and his visitors had probably just left. Ted had brought him whichever belongings he had left in Cornwall, which included an old pyjama and a couple books, and Strike, who treasured the little he could have and had shed sincere tears when multiple friends and family had appeared, like Nick and Ilsa, with the little mementos they could find for him, had appreciated them more than ever.

“Robin, hi!” he smiled warmly at her, his eyes lighting up, and then he looked surprised at her bags. “Did you assault Santa on your way here?”

“Ha, ha,” Robin rolled eyes and half smiled, walking inside. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m all right, but please, enlighten me.”

“These are for you,” Robin placed them at the feet of his bed. “The agency would like to gift you with some little nothings for all you’ve done for us.”

“You bought me stuff?”

“The agency,” Robin corrected. “It’s a gift. Check it out.”

Strike looked at her curious, and grabbed the nearest back, pulling out a large Arsenal’s toiletries bag, black and with a small golden badge of Arsenal FC, Strike’s favourite club. He smiled, and then pulled multiple things. An electronic toothbrush similar to that Robin had seen in his toilet once, toothpaste just like the one Robin smelled in his breath normally, his brand of mouthwash, dental floss -he did have a ton of hygienic products usually because he was so clean- and even a black comb. There was a brand new shaving machine, just like the ones Strike liked without too many features to make him dizzy, with proper aftershave and everything, Lavender scented like the one Strike usually used, there were eye drops like those the hospital staff had repeatedly insisted they’d use after the fire until their eyes healed completely, and the deodorant he used. There were shampoo and gel very similar to those Strike used, with the same smells or lack of them at least,  and Strike found himself grinning and his eyes filling with tears as he opened bag after bag. This single moment became more relevant than every birthday present he never got through his childhood, than every Christmas, and superior to most gifts he’d ever been given.

Robin had not just gotten him toiletries to help him feel refreshed and like himself, like she had felt having that first shower and getting rid of hospital smells, but then in other bags there were other things too. A brand new notepad like the one he always kept in his pocket, with a series of blue and black pens like the ones he liked to use, a brand new silver and wooden fountain pen that had actually come of Robin’s own pocket as a personal gift, knowing he liked old-school things, a journal, a few second-hand books of Catullus so old Strike didn’t know how Robin had found them, a new watch similar to the one he had liked to wear the most, because his watches had all burned, and the one he’d had on his wrist had been irreparably damaged, a dark maroon silk tie that went with his eyes and that was better than his old and much used maroon tie, a new nail-clipper,  a couple new belts similar to those he had alternatively used, and even a pack of socks, all identically black and with sufficient length to be comfortable for the prosthesis, so identical he’d never be worried about finding the right match.

And then he got to the last bag, that Robin had deliberately put in the very end of the bed, and pulled out the brand new coat, and to Robin’s surprise, he put his face in his hands, and cried. His tears surprised Strike himself too, but it was the only way he could express how meaningful Robin’s gifts were to him. Because she wasn’t taking advantage of the situation to give him new things that didn’t match his style but how she thought he should buy, dress or care for himself, she wasn’t buying over-expensive things to overcompensate, she was simply saying ‘you’ve lost these things, and I know you so well, I care about you so much, and I pay so much attention to you and your needs, that I’ve taken the liberty to go for you, knowing you hate shopping and you’re unwell in hospital, and get you things as similar to those I know you like and use as I’ve possibly been able to find’. It spoke of her dedication, her affection, her attention to detail and the way she looked at him more than words could express, and it became so touching, so meaningful, that Strike had no words.

  
  



	6. There was you

**Chapter 6: There was you.**

Robin carefully set the bags on the bed she’d left empty, and moved to sit by Strike’s side and wrap her arms around him, stretching her neck to press a kiss against his temple and rubbing his back as the crying made him cough, breathless. This felt like the defining moment, a passing instant when an opening appears which must be driven through with force if success is to be achieved, and Robin felt like she was full of that force, for some reason, in that moment.

“Cormoran,” she said with determination, as he managed to calm himself, “we’ve had no choice but to live, okay? Together, we live. And that means we have no choice but get back on our feet, try to go on with life just like we always have, and look at every enemy in the eye and say bugger the fuck off,” she spoke the last words very clearly and slowly, and he snorted a laugh. She smiled warmly. “Understood?”

“Crystal clear,” Strike looked up at Robin, eyes swollen and reddened and so glassy, cheeks puffy, and smiled warmly. “Robin, you… how did you know my brands, my… the stuff I… how do you know me so well? I’ve never spoken with you about like… my dental floss,” he chuckled, amused and impressed.

“Because when you care about someone, you pay attention. And if your talent is detecting then… you detect better,” Robin squeezed him close with one arm and kissed his cheek, feeling bold. “Do you like your coat?”

“I love it, all of this I can’t even… Robin, I don’t even know what to say.”

“Try it on!”

Grinning, Strike moved to put on his prosthesis and stand on his feet, and put his coat on, sighing happily as the comforting weight and warmth enveloped him. It felt just right on him.

“Wow, I can’t believe it…” Strike stretched, checking it was comfortable and the right size, patted his pockets, beamed. “How do I look?” Robin looked fondly up and down at him.

“Like a detective.”

“How could I possibly compensate you, Robin?” Strike looked at her, in awe. “The Ritz and a perfume can’t possibly be enough this time…”

“How about a hug?”

Strike grinned and nodded.

“Yes, that I can do.”

With a satisfied smile, Robin stood up and rushed to him, wrapping her arms tight around him and feeling, for the first time all day, at home.

**. . .**

Strike was still in hospital when, after carefully searching online with him for weeks and closing the fundraiser, adding the money to the respective accounts and officially becoming rich, he gave Robin the green light to check a few office spaces in person and decide which she liked more, and buy it. Robin took Pat with her for this job, and Lucy and Greg, because Greg, being a quantity surveyor, knew more than any of them about the technical aspects of the buildings, things like isolation and safety, or the right materials. Strike and Robin had agreed that they’d come back from the ashes big time like a phoenix, to have what they’d always wanted and kick ass to whoever had tried to kill them, to be the best agency in London, if not the entire country.

At last, the agency had had so much money thanks to everyone’s generosity, to buy a large space in an eighth floor in Baker Street, near Regent’s Park. As much as the street’s popular relationship with the detectives’ world made it a cliché choice, the office had been wonderful enough to guarantee they wouldn’t care about the cliché.

The new office was one for an agency that was planning on using its new money to grow with a bang, big time. It was in a modern brick building  that was a renovation from an Edwardian one, keeping winks to its style in the facade, and they had an entire fourth landing to themselves. They had bought it completely empty, with only the AC/heating included, and had spent generous amounts of money from the fundraiser to make sure it was furnished according to Strike’s sense of style mixed with Robin’s, mostly. They kept the walls white, and kept the few here and there that were bare brick as such, with the floors being dark wooden everywhere except for the tiles in the bathroom and kitchen. They even had a carpeted meeting’s room, which added style.

The office entrance led into a reception area from which there was access to the bathroom on the left, the kitchen in the diagonal left corner, the meetings room ahead behind Pat’s desk, or the working area on the right. From the kitchen, that was large and contained a large table for the team to have lunch together, there was access to a medium sized terrace through a large sliding glass door, which had views to both Regent’s Park and Baker Street. A window connected the terrace to the reception area as well, so it could be ventilated. In the meetings room, slash waiting room, there were two sofas and two armchairs around a large square coffee table so they could sit comfortably and chat for their meetings and enjoy a cup of tea, or move to the kitchen if they needed their laptops or were also starving. And the working area was a large room with windows to Baker Street, that divided in two main parts. The one closest to the reception and to the building landing was mainly for storage, with tall bookshelves and filing cabinets organised alphabetically, many of them with lockets for privacy protection. The one closest to the windows and Baker Street, on the other hand, had four desks with computers and a printer, for their employees to use when necessary, in case they didn’t have proper working spaces or computers at home, or when they needed to fill files or information into the office cloud. In that space there was also the entry to the only inner office, a large one Robin and Strike would share.

The new office also came with certain perks; a lift, fire alarms, CCTV system that Robin and Strike would have full access to at all times simply through their phones,  plus a caretaker at the entrance regulating entrances and package deliveries, so no more fingers in the office. Robin had furnished the entire office with a mixture of vintage-modern style, trying to have winks to their old office with wooden desks and bookshelves, but also trying to make it a more pleasant for more clients, had added a ton of plants everywhere taking advantage of all the light the new space provided, and some cheap paintings and vintage black and white photographs of Cornwall, Yorkshire, and London, adding that way personal touches  and making the office a place one would happily spend hours in.  They had also recruited the help of Barclay’s brother in law, who had a painting and decorating company so a t least, their employees were very happy with the upgrades.

As for new hirings, in Strike’s absence but with his input, Robin had hired a cleaning lady to come at the times when clients didn’t usually arrive, right before their closing hour, Tuesdays and Thursdays from three to five, when she, Strike and Pat would undoubtedly still be in the office, because they’d clean their own spaces, but would be alert in case the cleaning lady looked where she shouldn’t or was too lazy. All she had to do was clean general dust, bathroom, take care of the floors and windows, and make sure there was a general tidiness and cleanliness for when they simply didn’t have time. Also, the team was joined by a surprise latest hiring in William Herbert aka Spanner, Nick’s younger brother. Spanner was an IT who had made good money working freelance for some of the biggest companies in London, and even though he was free to still do that in his free time, they’d enlisted him as their IT expert, to take care of their technologies, cloud, computer security and help them when they needed to dig into other people’s computers or websites, as he’d done more than once freelance. He wasn’t going to be needed constantly, so his salary was smaller, but he was given his very own desk at the working area to work whenever he wanted, even in his own stuff, which he accepted as a pleasant addition to his salary. Robin, Hardy, Vanessa and Wardle also found them two new employees Robin hired after Strike gave his thumbs up from the hospital, which expanded their team to ten so they were:

Strike and Robin; Patricia ‘Pat’ Chauncey, the office manager and assistant for the past two years, who was in her late fifties looking a decade older, vaped, and was thin, with monkeyish face and jet-black hair, and a deep raspy voice often confused with Strike’s; Andy Hutchins hired three years previously, who was thin and saturnine, and ex-policeman a decade older than Strike, like Pat, and highly recommended by Wardle, even though he had sclerosis multiple, which sometimes affected his job; Sam Barclay hired shortly after Hutchins, a Glaswegian, punctual former rifleman Strike had met in the army and always liked, and who was handsome with blue eyes and a strong jaw and in his mid thirties and with a baby; Michelle Greenstreet, a former policewoman in her late thirties who had begun working for them just months before, and who was in her mid thirties, black, originally from Bristol; Spanner; and their newest detectives Tracey Chapman and Wyatt Lightwood. And their cleaning lady, a woman in her mid-forties called Rosa Dennis.

Tracey was a former SIB in her late thirties who Strike had dated back in the day but was now happily married to a mutual friend, after a mutual and amicable break-up due to wanting different things, and was a mother of a couple little girls. Her husband was also a SIB, but both of them had decided to retire over a year previously and moved to London months before looking for a calmer family life, so Tracey had contacted Strike through Hardy and her husband had decided to join the private security business. Tracey was a tall, beautiful brunette with features reminding of Taiwanese beauty, dark eyes, and she was all grace, badassery and intelligence, so as much as Robin felt trepidation from Strike’s ex being there -a woman Lucy, Ilsa and Nick spoke very highly of- she also had to admit it felt great to have strong female power back in the office, made her feel less alone.

Wyatt, on the other hand, was a former forensic psychologist turned junior detective in training, a  thirty - six year old man Robin had instantly become fond of for having had the career she’d initially wanted, and for his good manners, respect and eagerness to learn. He came recommended by Vanessa, after years working for the Met, and he was tall, strong and handsome, but also had a unique ability to give you a full profile of someone just from looking at them, which was scarily intimidating, but highly useful.

So while Strike was hospitalised  and being fit for a fancy brand new prosthesis Robin, Nick, Ilsa and Lucy had convinced him to upgrade to using the new money, the agency resumed its activity, the office more buzzing with energy than ever. Robin efficiently directed it, no longer letting anyone undermine her, yet being respectful and kind as always, and by the time Strike was discharged and dressed with a new suit Ilsa and Nick had bought him, Robin had organized a huge party at the office to officially open it to business, show it to Strike, celebrate the agency’s resurface from the ashes, and invite their families, friends, and everyone who had contributed most generously -save for Charlotte and Matthew- with their money, to party and celebrate. There’d be plenty of drinks, and she, Michelle,  Wyatt and Spanner had worked together on a playlist to fill the night with music, not to mention it’d be the first time the new team as a whole would meet, even Rosa,  who wasn’t considered less than anyone for cleaning.

“Hey Robin, we’re ready!” shouted Max, the actor who was also her friend and live-in landlord, as he buttoned up his suit for the party, both standing by the entry. He has waiting with his now long-time boyfriend George, who worked in the crew of his current BBC drama.

“I’m ready!” Robin’s bedroom opened and she timidly came out, making their gay jaws drop. She had decided with the damage her hair had sustained in the fire, a haircut was due, and she had gone for a bold, new thing she had never done in her life; a short, wispy bob, which she left wavy and unruly, and with a nape undercut and longer locks in the front, her side parted as always. She had decided she was going for badass sexy detective boss, so she had applied her Narciso perfume, gone for dark eyeliner and smokey eye shadow to bring out her eyes, and intense lipstick to go with it and with her hair. And then she had her green Cavalli dress and high heels, plus a black blazer with the lapels up. She wanted to embrace the phoenix resurfacing from the ashes, and wanted to be everything she hadn’t been enough before; daring, bold, adventurous, tough.

“Sweet mother of…” George gasped. “Oh if I was straight the things I’d do to you honey…” Robin snorted a laugh and twirled to show off.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Robin… when Corm sees you he’s going to want to unwrap you, lick you and eat you,” said Max, making her blush. “You look like a phoenix being born with an emerald cape and eyes of fuck with me and I’ll fuck you twice over.”

“Agreed,” George nodded.

“Then help me put on the necklace my parents bought me on my birthday and let’s go.

Robin had purposefully waited until the morning previous to the party night for her haircut, going to a highly recommended stylist Vanessa had given him, to surprise everyone twice as much.  She couldn’t wait to drop some jaws.

The three commuted in Robin’s Land Rover, warming up to the party with loud music, celebrating a good week and how things started to look up, and with how excited Robin was already, she was grateful for having used waterproof make-up, because she knew tears were going to flow. Her parents, brothers and Jenny would all come, and she had had a quick lunch with them already, so she knew they’d be at the party later instead of going together. Once the trio arrived at the office, she was enthusiastically greeted by their employees and their partners, Rosa’s husband Joe, Andy’s wife Louise, Sam’s wife Emma, Pat’s husband Ryan, Michelle’s girlfriend Amanda. Tracey’s husband Hamish, and Wyatt and Spanner being single. Everyone was already setting up the bafflers, the drinks, putting the fairy lights over the terrace, and making sure all the drawers and rooms that had confidential things were locked. First to arrive were Robin’s family and Strike’s sister, plus Greg and Ted, and Robin was quickly inundated with compliments about herself and the office, everyone excitedly pacing around, as the kitchen’s sliding doors were fully open to be one with the terrace so the space was larger, and people could also wander off to the meetings room if they wanted to sit calmly, grab foldable chairs they’d piled at the entrance, and move quite freely. Vanessa, Oliver, Eric and his wife April Wardle arrived shortly after and then, of the other donors to the fundraiser, Robin had invited those Strike got along with: Al Rokeby and his girlfriend, who’d promised to not nag Strike, Prudence Donleavy with her wife, Robin’s cousin Katie and her husband -she had wanted to invite her uncle, Katie’s father, who was her favourite uncle, but he couldn’t make it, regrettably-, Izzy Chiswell and her new girlfriend, Hardacre with his wife, both of whom had come from Scotland, Anna Bamborough and her wife, plus some other old friends, most of which were Strike’s, others neighbours from Denmark Street. Nick and Ilsa would bring Strike, and their brothers and parents had come ahead, so in total, they were expected to be between forty and fifty guests, which was reasonable enough. It was a celebration of family, friends, satisfied clients, and a successful business with a great net of support, and also a great come home party for Strike.

W ith the office buzzing with guests and full of life, enthusiastic conversation, music and dancing, people from the most different social classes and backgrounds mingling and laughing together, Robin made sure to greet everyone, thank them profusely time and time again, show them around, introduce people to initiate conversations and keep everyone entertained, and receive all the many compliments she was getting, for she looked ‘incredible, amazing’ and the office was ‘so big, sophisticated and nicely decorated’. Once Ilsa texted saying they were nearly there, fashionably late as planned, Robin reunited everyone in the terrace decorated with plants, fairy lights making lines over their heads, and some chairs and auxiliary tables she’d rented for the night, and climbed on an empty box of beer bottles to make herself seen and heard by everyone.

“Attention everyone!” she called, and everybody hushed down. “Cormoran is about to arrive. He was discharged last night, he hasn’t seen the office yet, and he has no idea we’ve prepared a whole party for him, he thinks this is a small gathering to celebrate the new office,” there was general laughter of mischief as they plotted under the detective’s nose. “So when my friend texts me they’ve brought him and they’re in the building, we’re all going to turn off the lights and be dead quiet for a few minutes while the friends that will be with him show him the office, and then they’re going to bring him here, I’ll turn the lights on and can we get a big ‘surprise’, yes?!” everyone cheered in agreement and Robin grinned. “Excellent, thanks! Finally I only want to remind you, Cormoran paid our first office off his own pocket, he always takes away from his monthly pay to put it in for the office so most of the time he makes less than any other employee, he’s a good guy who’s lost everything and spent a month and a half in hospital and who nearly died,” she took a deep breath, not wanting to get emotional. “So this is to thank you for your money but also to thank him, for his resilience, his hard work, his strength, his kindness, and all he’s done for his employees, his family, his friends, and everybody he helps with his work day in and day out. We want to encourage him to keep going, we want him to feel good and loved, okay? Can I trust you to help him give him that?!” everyone cheered again so Robin grinned, then her phone buzzed. “They’re downstairs! Lights off, music off!”

All the lights were turned off in the kitchen-terrace, and everyone squatted or knelt, trying to lie low, sometimes sniggering in nerves as they heard the front door open and Strike, Ilsa and Nick walking around. He didn’t know what was coming for him.

  
  



	7. Rise like a phoenix

**Chapter 7: Rise like a phoenix.**

“So quiet,” said Strike as they walked inside the reception. “Oh, this place is nice!” he grinned, looking around. He’d only seen the photos of the space when it was unfurnished and empty, and the floor plan, so he was happily surprised.

“Yeah, they’re waiting for you in the kitchen but Robin sort of wants to give you a little surprise so she ordered us to first show you around,” said Nick, looking around quickly to make sure they’d hidden the traces of party and kept it in the kitchen. “Come around…”

Every room got a reaction out of Strike, who was to excited to think more of Robin’s surprise. He teared-up and chuckled at the photographs and paintings of their home counties, he whistled in admiration as he saw his new inner office shared with Robin -it was clear whose desk was for whom, as Robin knew which side he preferred and also hers had an unmistakeable Robin vibe, with the little robin Orlando Quine had made framed on her desk-, and he was near the point of tears, feeling happy beyond belief and so relieved things were impossibly perfect and his team had done so well, by the time they finished the guide.

“Let’s go into the kitchen then, everyone’s waiting,” said Ilsa. Strike thought it was a small gathering of close friends, a dinner, so he didn’t suspect of her fancy dress and being forced into a dark blue suit with a new black shirt, first buttons open, nor hadn’t thought how much his suit went with Robin’s eyes.

“All right, all right,” Strike half smiled, seeing Ilsa enter the kitchen and, to his confusion, turn on the lights. If there was people there, why did they have the lights off and how come he hadn’t heard them?

Ilsa was trying hard not to laugh uncovering everyone who was trying to lie low unseen as she turned the light on, and then she opened the door fully just as Strike was about to touch her in the other side, and the room exploded with a giant ‘WELCOME BACK STRIKE!’ as previously coordinated, as everyone stood up, and Martin turned the music volume back up, and Strike froze on the spot, surprise and astonishment written all over his face. He normally didn’t like surprises, but this was good. He saw his best friends, family of both himself and Robin, his team, their partners, even Al, with whom things were a bit better lately, and Pru, who had frequently visited him in hospital and he’d found he liked, and the very grateful Anna Bamborough, everyone people who appreciated him highly  and who had helped them get the business back together. People he at least didn’t dislike.

“Oh my…” he murmured, his eyes widening at all the big smiles beaming at him, his jaw dropped and his eyes watery until he had to blink several times to stop seeing blurry. Strike understood all at once why he had been pressured into a suit, into having a haircut, even into going to the barbershop to get his grown beard tidied up, his neck shaven.

And then from the multitude appeared Robin, and Strike snorted in astonishment, his mouth twitching involuntarily so he grinned from ear to ear. As Robin walked towards him, astonishingly stunning with a new haircut that did unspeakable things to him, it was as if the rest of the room vanished to Strike, his tunnel vision was only capable of seeing Robin, the biggest, greatest star in the room, beaming at him. And as people spontaneously began to chant ‘Strike, Strike, Strike!’ clearly already on second and third glasses of beer or wine, judging by the reddened cheeks of most, and the music came back up, Robin hugged him tight and he hugged her back so enthusiastically he lifted her off the ground a little.

Strike’s eyes shut close and his face buried in her hair, his nostrils filling with Narciso perfume and Robin’s sweet shampoo, as a sob broke in his throat, clenching her tight.

It was remarkable how for a man who had never previously in his life been a crier, now it felt like he hadn’t stopped crying in a month. Avril Lavigne’s voice echoed in the background, loud and clear:

‘ _Please wrap your drunken arms around me_

_And I'll let you call me yours tonight_

_Cause slightly broken's just what I need_

_And if you give me what I want_

_Then I'll give you what you like_

_Please tell me I'm your one and only_

_Or lie and say at least tonight_

_I've got a brand new cure for lonely_

_And if you give me what I want_

_Then I'll give you what you like_

_When you turn off the lights_

_I get stars in my eyes_

_Is this love?_

_Maybe someday_

_So don't turn on the lights_

_I'll give you what you like’_

That’s when Strike knew beyond a shade of a doubt that, if he had a bit more liquid courage, he’d be doing two things. He’d tell her how much he loved her, how much she had broken into him and turned him into a pile of emotion with her immense thoughtfulness, kindness, generosity, affection, dedication, devotion, hard work, sacrifice and strength, how much after all she’d done how couldn’t he love her? And he’d tell her he couldn’t imagine his life without her, that she was the only exception for him, that she was everything and then more, and he would kiss her.

But he wasn’t drunk, and so when she pulled away, hands on his shoulders and a beaming smile at him, with tears in her eyes, eyes that drifted briefly to his lips and back to his eyes, her lips closing as she used her eyes filled with affection to say it all, Strike didn’t kiss her, and didn’t say anything. He was rendered speechless, so he sniffled and beamed, shaking his head.

“Robin…” he murmured through the noise. “You are… you are everything, Robin. Every damn great thing, everything.” Robin seemed to understand what he meant, and she blushed, and kissed his cheek, that burn more than the flames had made it burn.

“This is for you, we owe it all to you,” she whispered by his ear, and moved away, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the multitude.

Someone placed a beer in Strike’s hand, someone lowered the music to a volume that wasn’t deafening, and so Strike moved between the multitude, grinning, accepting hugs and shaking hands, thanking everyone over and over and over again, and receiving the affection of his people. At last, when he had greeted everyone individually and finished a beer in the process and been given a second, that was affecting him more than it should due to the over a month of hospital-enforced sobriety, Strike was pushed and encouraged to stand on the  large stone surface that lifted about thirty centimetres above ground in the corner between the terrace and the facade of the building, and which contained a decorative water fountain, so it served to sit by the fountain, but he might as well use it to be seen as he was encouraged to give a speech.

“Few words Strike!” someone shouted, and the music was lowered. Strike took a long sip of his beer, hearing giggles and getting the feeling that his friends just wanted to embarrass him a little in friendly teasing. Everyone crowded around him in a semi-circle, with Robin and their colleagues in the first line, grinning encouragingly at him.

“All right!” Strike didn’t even know what to say. He was speechless and impressed. “You guys have broken me, I don’t know…” there were giggles and teasing as he rubbed tears off his eyes. “What I really want to say is just… thank you,” he couldn’t lift his voice too much because of the throat and lung damage he and Robin weren’t hundred percent recovered from, but everyone had quieted and lowered the music so he could be heard perfectly under the stars. “When this agency opened seven years ago, it was just me and there was no party like this. There was a huge loan that took several years to be paid, a small cosy little office in Denmark Street, and thirty-four year old me trying to get used to a civilian life without half a leg, trying to succeed in my dream job, and failing miserably when none of my clients was particularly good. Things went so bad back then that within a year and a half I was homeless living in my little office, and cancelling the Temp Jobs agency that had given me a secretary every week because I didn’t have work for one. And then, even though I cancelled, two incredible things, I’d say miracles if I was religious, happened. One, a murderer stupidly decided to come and ask me to resolve their crime, and two… Robin Ellacott came into the agency. And nothing would be shitty ever again.”

He pointed to her with his beer and there was a general ‘aww’, and she blushed deeply.

“It’s been… five years in a couple of months since that day,” said Strike, continuing with his speech. “And thanks to Robin, it’s been the five most incredible years of my life. I’ve had the immense honour and pleasure to see her go from secretary with no criminal investigative experience, to the most skilled, innate detective I’ve known, the best business partner I could’ve asked for, my best friend… Robin,” he bit his lower lip and looked at her with devotion. “I’m so _fucking_ proud of you, look what you’ve become in such little time…” there was a round of cheers for her, and Robin sniffled and blushed harder, rubbing a tear off her eye with one finger, trying not to drag her make-up, and locking eyes with Strike before he went back to looking at everyone as he continued. “Truth is everything you see happened because of Robin. It was Robin who saved my life five years ago, when our first murderer tried to kill me in our office and honestly, he would’ve managed if Robin, for some reason, hadn’t returned to the office after closing hours, grabbed my prosthesis from the floor where it’d ended up and, as I had this killer on me, she used it to hit the man hard on the head, so hard he passed out,” he snorted a laugh and everyone laughed, looking at Robin with admiring eyes. “She saved my life, my twenty-five year old assistant, it’s like some joke… but she’s no joke. If it wasn’t for Robin, everything would’ve ended that day. Instead, John Bristow was arrested, double murder. Elizabeth Tassel was arrested. Then the Shacklewell Ripper, whom she nicked in the groin,” that gathered a round of applause and cheers, because it was a big one, “you guys know what he did… but not happy with that, Robin alone also got enough to guarantee the arrest of Noel Brockbank, a child rapist unrelated to our investigation, she did it only because it was the right thing. And then came Raphael Chiswell, who tried to kill her but didn’t succeed, and Janice Beattie most recently, and that goes on top of so many little cases. And I know it’s all thanks to Robin because alone I sunk, but now Robin could take my job any day, she’s already substituted me plenty of times and look where that’s gotten us. So cheers to you, Ellacott.”

He lifted her glass to her and everyone did the same, toasting in her honour as she blushed impossibly hard, accepting the congratulatory smiles and pats on her back. With another gulp to his beer, Strike continued.

“With Robin captaining this ship with me, our agency has grown and has become the family I never thought it would be. We got Andy, Pat, Sam, Michelle… and now also Spanner, Tracey, Wyatt and Rosa, can we get them a welcome applause?” they got applauses and cheers, which Robin joined, and the group smiled and blushed shyly. “I’m not always the nicest boss but Robin always is at least the most polite, so you have that,” his half joke half truth elicited some laughter. “And to address the elephant in the room… it’s true these have been probably two of the hardest months of Robin and I’s lives, months that could’ve destroyed the agency, and I want to tell you what little I’m sure by now that happened, because you all have invested in this, you’ve put your money and your hopes on us, and aside from thank you, you should know what I know. Truth is I’ve no idea who blew us up, but they’re so going down, I guarantee they don’t know who they’ve messed with.”

“Yes!” Robin shouted as she joined the applause, loving his newfound leader encouragement. Their employees seemed about as motivated and willing, nodding and grinning as they applauded their boss hard.

“That night, I could’ve died again. Robin could’ve died. But she saved my life again, and I know that for sure, she carried me out of that building on flames, leave it to Robin to figure out how to do such thing,” again, Robin got the cheering she deserved. “But we’re not dead. This agency is not dead. If anything, thanks to you all, and to our amazing investigative family, we’re more alive than ever, and if these people thought they’d buried us, they don’t know they’ve just awoken a beast because their biggest mistake was to fail once.”

“Well said Strike!” someone shouted, and Strike, nodded.

“Weeks back when I found out what had happened, and how I was left with nothing,” added Strike when silence was made again. “I made the mistake of thinking such thing literally, that there was really nothing left, and I was wrong. Yes my attic is gone. My belongings. Our beloved Denmark Street office. But I underestimated my loved ones, which I’ll never do again, and I now know how hard they worked to give me something to hold onto, seeing this amazing place and knowing you all made it happen…” he sniffled loudly and took a deep breath to calm himself. “You guys don’t know what this means to me. And I want to tell you… To me this isn’t about an office. We’re detectives, we spend most of the time on the street, a desk is just a desk. But the reason this one is such a big deal to me and to Robin is actually purely sentimental. To us, our office is not just an office. It’s a little cave where to run to when the world sucks and you need to make it a little fairer with any case you can get hands on, to feel better and keep going. It’s a refuge for anybody who doesn’t fit anywhere else. For me who otherwise would be just an amputee, for Robin who would be just a secretary, for Andy, for Sam, for Michelle… for all of you, you know where you’d be otherwise. Our office is where we meet people who are as weird as us and as passionate about justice and truth as we are, people who get us like not many people can, our office is the place where we grow as people and as detectives, where the magic happens, where to run to when life is chaotic, and where you’ll never be alone. Spanner, Tracey, Wyatt, Rosa… you don’t know it yet, but this office is like nothing you’ve known. Here we laugh with dark jokes over Thai take-out and drinks, here we find comfort and personal satisfaction, here, great things happen surrounded by great people, here, friendship and family happen. We had great memories in Denmark Street, it was our special place… and I was heartbroken to think it was all gone. But today I look at you and I know that thankfully, each and every person that mattered made it safely, and is here to make this new place special, magical, and inspirational once more. I’m counting on you… and you can count on me. Thank you everyone.”

H ours later and well into the party, Strike had been cracking jokes  with Al and some friends over a plate of canapés when he noticed Robin wasn’t around, and he wandered into the office, looking for her. Perhaps she was in the bathroom. Wandering between the rooms, Strike had a hunch and opened the inner office. And there he found his eyes locking with Robin’s. She was smiling softly at him, sitting on her chair and turned towards the window, a glass of wine in her hand, but now, she turned towards him.

“Hi,” she said softly.

“Hi,” Strike replied, his throat suddenly dry. She was so beautiful, and that haircut was a bomb. “What you doing here?”

“Hiding from my party,” Robin chuckled.

“Why?”

“Well…” Robin shrugged, and he walked inside, closing the door after himself. “I guess I’m not used to being so surrounded by so many people, it got a little overwhelming.”

“I get that,” Strike nodded. “You did an incredible thing, Robin. Actually a few incredible things.”

She half smiled and shrugged again, shaking her head.

“I only did my job.”

“No,” said Strike. “You did more than I could possibly express. You saved me… in more ways than one.”

“Cormoran Strike getting sappy?” she teased playfully, and his lip twitched into a smile.

“Bloody beers, they’re making me high after so long without alcohol,” he joked, making her chuckle. Then he extended a hand towards her. “Come with me? I got you a surprise.”

Robin glanced at his hand and was reaching for it before she knew what she was doing, nodding.

The two walked back to the terrace and Strike pulled her to stand on the surface by the fountain where he’d stood earlier, with him. He clinked his glass to call for attention, as the party was coming to an end.

“Attention please,” said Strike with a smile. Robin looked at him, confused, her heart hammering hard while she wondered what could this possibly be about. “Before the party comes to an end, I want to announce something, and it’s a surprise for Robin. Tonight we start a new chapter as an agency, with more workers, a bigger and better space and renovated energy, and a new start deserves a big change. Which is why,” he pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Robin, “me and our employees prepared a little something for you, while I was in hospital. You’re not the only one who can prepare a huge thing under a brilliant detective’s nose.” He added with a smirk, and Robin grinned, grabbing the paper. “Can you read out loud?”

Robin saw the envelope looked official, as if from the Government, and was already opened, so she drew out and unfolded a letter computer written, confused, but did as she was asked,  reading the letter out loud as everyone shut up to hear.

“ _Dear Mr Strike and Ms Ellacott,_

_As per requested, your company’s address has officially been changed from:_

_ 6 Denmark Street, 2 nd floor, London WC2H 8LU _

_To:_

_ 219 Baker Street, 8 th floor, London  NW1 6XE _

_In addition, Companies House is pleased to inform you the change of company has been granted, from:_

_Strike Agency_

_To:_

_ Strike & Ellacott Private Investigations _ ’

Robin skipped the rest of the letter, that were just the usual pleasantries, and her gaze fixed on Strike, who smiled smugly. She couldn’t believe her eyes.

“You changed the agency’s name to include my name? It’s Strike & Ellacott now?!”

“As it should’ve always been,” Strike said with a nod. “So let’s end this party on a proper toast, should we?” he added, while Robin’s jaw dropped in shock, her eyes watery, and he lifted his recently acquired glass of champagne. “To Strike & Ellacott Private Investigations!”

Everyone loudly joined in on the toast and Robin stared at Strike, her lips curving into a beaming smile. She was the happiest person in the world.

  
  



	8. Just a kiss in your lips in the moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year ;)

**Chapter 8: Just a kiss in your lips in the moonlight.**

“Thanks for coming, bye,” Robin bid farewell to the last of their guests, and closed the door, locking it. Max and George would grab the underground to George’s tonight, because Robin was going to stay behind with Strike to tidy up before going home.

She entered the kitchen and her lips twitched in a soft smile, seeing Strike fill up the dishwasher as he whistled happily. He seemed to notice her eyes on the back of his head because as he closed the dishwasher, he turned and looked straight to her, interrupting his whistling.

“Everybody gone?”

“Yes,” Robin nodded, and moved to close the sliding doors, because it was getting freezing cold inside this late at night in January and she had turned on the heating. “Did you have fun?”

“A lot, actually,” Strike nodded, drying his hands on the kitchen towel. “You?”

“Yeah, it was very nice. Everyone mingled together so nicely.”

“Right? And Lucy was appealing, Al behaved, Pru was charming…” Strike smiled at her. “All the parts of my life fitting perfectly for the first time in my life thanks to you. I could get used to this.”

“You deserve it,” Robin climbed on the kitchen counter and stared at him. There was some sort of electrifying magnetic energy between them that stopped her from putting any distance, and Strike’s eyes darkened looking at her. “Tonight was for you.”

“Why do you do so many things for me?” asked Strike, feeling the alcohol hard and yet not considering himself drunk. He could think clearly, but his mouth moved with less permission from his brain.

Robin blinked, confused, but didn’t miss a beat.

“Because you’re my favourite person, if I don’t do them for you then for who?”

With a shrug, Strike stood nervously. He’d seen her laughing with  Wyatt  and Spanner, and he did know Spanner had been after Robin for ages. Both were single, near her age, younger than him, handsomer, and very talented.  Worst, he knew both were good men.

“So are we going to address this?” he proceeded boldly.

“This what?”

“Well… everybody I’ve spoken with tonight…” Strike gulped. Was he really going to do this? But he had no choice. Give it a week more, and Wyatt or Spanner would go ahead. Wyatt had, in his opinion, very good odds with Robin. And Strike was no coward, he wasn’t going to lose her to a newbie. “Everyone thinks we’re together or something.”

“Oh,” Robin looked surprised he’d mentioned it. “Yes, I’m aware. So?”

“So it has to be because they see something here, right? And we’re detectives. Isn’t it a little frustrating that everyone is seeing something we’re not?”

“Who says we’re not seeing it?” Robin teased, deciding that if he was going to go for it, she wasn’t backing down, even when her heart was accelerated through it.

Taken aback, Strike’s eyebrows raised. Did this mean what he thought it meant? As if wanting to confirm his silent thoughts, her eyes fixed in his lips, long enough for him to know that she knew he was noticing it. He stepped forward towards her, and their eyes locked again. She was staring at him as if daring him to go ahead, and he was feeling his knees weaken.

“You look absolutely stunning tonight, Robin,” said Strike, and her lip twitched into the softest, smallest smirk, trying to hide it from him. “I mean, not just tonight,” he added nervously, suddenly stammering. “I mean— obviously you always— you _are_ a beautiful person, just…” she snorted a laugh and he locked eyes with her with a soft smile. “That haircut really suits you, and you make that dress seem like the most perfect dress.”

“Thanks,” said Robin, and reached a hand to his hair, feeling the liquid courage in her throat. She buried a hand in his curls, always impressed by their softness, and his eyes closed at the touch, his breath hitching. “You also got a nice haircut, although I don’t think you needed it… and the beard… looks great,” she gulped, and he opened his eyes. Her pupils were distinctly dilated.

“Ilsa says I’ve gotten too skinny,” he commented for reasons he did not know.

“Yes,” said Robin with a nod, “me too. I suppose we’ll have to go on many surveillances and pub lunches now and get those bacon rolls going, right? No more bloody salads.” She added with half a smile.

“I never thought you needed a diet,” ‘cause I’m not Matthew. I’m me, Cormoran, and I’ll love you just the way you are, and will only push you to healthy weights, and I think you feel the same way.

“You were always the smart one,” she murmured softly. The tension between them was intoxicating.

“I noticed you didn’t have him or Charlotte here tonight.”

“Would you have wanted them here tonight?”

“No,” said Strike firmly. “I want them far, far away from us… as a matter of fact… I would’ve been perfectly happy with just you.”

“Bugger, should’ve realized and it would’ve been cheaper,” said Robin with half a smile. “And if it had been just us… what would you have done differently?”

“Well, for starters…” Strike walked forward, and the hand Robin kept on his hair softly pulled him closer too. He licked his lips, looking at hers as his hands found her knees, which she parted enough to let him stand between them. “I would’ve danced more with you. And uh… I would’ve done this sooner.”

They had no idea who started it, but they both finished it and before they knew it, they were kissing passionately, making out like teenagers. Sitting on the counter Robin was only slightly taller than him, so his face tilted back a little and hers forward, a hand buried in his hair to pull him closer and the other on his back as she kept her arm over his shoulder as their tongues met and she moaned into his mouth. Strike’s arms wrapped around her tightly pressing their fronts together, and her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer and making his member twitch in anticipation.

T heir kiss was perfect. The right amounts of saliva, the right amounts of movement, the right amounts of pressure, the right amount of teeth, right amount of lip-clasping, and the right amount of tongue. Within seconds, their kiss had short-circuited their brains so there was nothing else they could think of, and his mouth was full of lipstick from her lips, both their lips swelling rapidly. And then, after a few moments of an explosion of passion, his lungs screamed for air and he broke in coughs, moving fast enough to turn his face and not cough into her mouth.

“Shit, sorry…” he said apologetic, taking a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” Robin put her hands on his biceps worriedly, and was surprised to find they were so tight and strong.

“Yeah, bloody lungs… shouldn’t have smoked so much, and I have a strange habit of getting blown up,” he joked darkly, making her chuckle. He smiled at her, hoping he hadn’t ruined the vibe. “So uh… do you want to… we could grab some whiskey and take this to our office? ‘cause this seems like a business we should deal with… in the office.”

Robin’s eyes dilated further until they were black eyes surrounded by a thin blue circle, and Strike found himself hypnotised by that.

“You’re absolutely right, Mr Strike.”

He pulled from her hand and they managed to keep their composure as they walked through the reception and to their inner office, where Strike held the door open for them and locked the door after he, too, came inside. Robin had turned a lamp on and they stood, staring at each other with the tension of two swordsmen about to disengage in combat. Behind Robin, their two desks stood and the blinds were half lowered,  behind Strike, there was a large bookshelf that occupied the whole wall. Between them, a small sofa, a small coffee table, and a foot lamp.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Strike.

“Am I sure I want the most wonderful man I’ve ever known? My best friend?” Robin removed her jacket and threw it backwards on her desk. “If an explosion is not a wake-up call, I don’t know what is, Strike.”

“You’re right,” Strike nodded, and in two long steps, she had her in his arms, hers around his neck, and they were kissing again, this time much more sweetly and slowly than the first time, taking their time to breathe, pepper kisses over their faces, down the other’s neck and shoulder, Strike’s jacket on the coffee table.

Hands entangled in short hair, hands pressing deliciously on the other’s back, hands holding onto the other’s arms. Lips finding one another, trying to speak a language none of them had ever truly, wholeheartedly spoken before. Fingers unbuttoning a shirt, fingers sliding a zip down, fingers undoing a bra, fingers exploring new lands. Legs moving slowly, legs guiding bodies onto the sofa, legs entangling in pleasure.  Moans echoed into the air, shaken breaths, eager kisses, skin to skin.

Heart to heart.

**. . .**

The first thing Robin noticed when she was conscious of being awake, was Strike’s heartbeat gently drumming against her ear, his mane of dark chest hair pressed against her cheek and his chin against her head as he snored away. Her bare nipples were brushing the hair above his sternum, tickling her, and she could feel his warm length against her thigh as their legs intertwined. She was wet against his own thigh, she could tell, and their lower legs and feet hung out of the sofa. She felt safe, warm and comfortable against his big mass, his strong and heavy arms securely wrapped around her, his fingertips of his left hand brushing the top of her ass cheeks, and a blanket she always kept draped over the back of the sofa was covering them both which, between Strike’s warm body and the heating, was good enough.

She could remember the most incredible orgasms of her life, followed by snuggling, whispering sweet nothings until they fell asleep, and now Robin felt pleased, content, happy, fuller inside than she’d felt in her life. It didn’t matter someone was trying to kill them, not when they were together and she had full faith in the team they were.

“Robin…” his soft raspy murmur was followed by his arms tightening around her, and his face rubbing against her hair, his snores interrupting for a moment before they returned. Robin smiled softly at the thought of appearing in his dreams even when she was right there with him.

“I’m here,” she murmured, pressing her lips against his bare chest. “I’m always here with you.”

She moved to nuzzle into his neck and get more of her legs on the sofa, adjusting the blanket around them, and then Robin fell back asleep, but only for a short while, or so it felt like before Strike’s lips woke her up by insistently pressing against her face. As they found her eyelids, she smiled, waking up fully, and when her eyes opened he was staring at her like never before.

“I’m so in love with you,” said Strike, surprising her, while his large hand caressed her face and the other supported his head, lifting it a little while her ear pressed against his sun-kissed shoulder. “You don’t have to say it back or panic, and I won’t feel anything if you don’t say it, I just… I already thought I’d lose you once and not get to say it, and suddenly it feels absurd to wait until the next time one of us nearly dies. I love you, I have for a long while… and it’s important for me that you know that. It’s just that.”

Robin’s lips curved into a sleepy smile and she moved, putting her arms below his to push herself up as Strike lowered his head back onto the sofa so that her face was over his, her shortened hair cascading down one side. He had left a lovebite on her shoulder as she fucked him against the sofa.

“Strike?”

“Yes?”

She smiled bigger.

“Good morning,” she said sleepy, and he chuckled.

“Good morning,” she pecked his lips.

“Also,” she looked lovingly down on him, “I love you too, silly.”

“Really?” his eyebrows were raised in surprise, and she nodded.

“How could I not, uh? I don’t rescue just anybody from a building in flames,” Robin smiled against his lips, kissing him again. “I really…” she kissed him again. “Really…” and again. “Truly…” another kiss, and Strike moaned softly. “Love you. You’re my oxygen, Cormoran Strike. For real.” She added, feeling her chest full of feelings. Strike beamed and sat up, pulling her into his lap and kissing her sweetly, hugging her close.

“You just made me the fucking happiest,” he murmured, kissing her cheek and watching her like she was the most beautiful thing.

“That makes two of us,” Robin ruffled his hair playfully, and then they both heard phones buzzing. One sounded from Robin’s dress, which had pockets, and the other from somewhere in the tangle of Strike’s trousers on the floor. She chuckled. “Bet you a morning quickie that’s Ilsa?”

“I’m getting that quickie either way,” Strike said, and kissed her as she sniggered. “What are we gonna do? Do we tell them?”

“That we slept together, or that we’re in love?”

“Both,” Strike said, cupping her face in his hands. “But also that I’m your boyfriend now, if that’s okay?”

Robin grinned from ear to ear, her stomach fluttering. Who was this Strike, who gave her his heart with open hands?

“More than okay… How about we have a quickie in the shower, since this office is a reformed apartment and has a proper shower with a bar you can use for support, and nobody’s coming on a Saturday, and then… you can call our friend while I make us some breakfast?”

“Good, but hurry up before she comes wondering if we’re dead,” Strike kissed her hard. “God, I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Not possible.”

“Dare you.”

“To what?”

“To love me more,” said Robin daringly. Strike raised his eyebrows.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, uh?”

“Yes,” she chuckled, amused, and he smiled broadly.

“Then I’ll have to keep showing you,” Strike’s lips grazed her softly. “I’ll take you on dates… give you the most incredible Valentine’s Day… spoil you rotten now you’ve made me a very rich man…”

“Don’t throw your money so easily, mister,” said Robin. “That money is for you to never have to worry about money again. Not to spoil me rotten when all I need is you.”

Strike inhaled deeply.

“You don’t know how much more that makes me love you.”

Robin snorted a laugh and kissed him again.

“Show me then.”

  
  



	9. Mercy

**Chapter 9: Mercy.**

The laughter Robin and Strike shared while eating breakfast with his phone on speaker, as Ilsa Herbert’s excitement about their newfound relationship echoed across the room, was a moment of pure glee Strike would never forget, his hand intertwined with Robin over the table while they simply stared lovingly into each other, vaguely listening to Robin. Both knew they wouldn’t usually say ‘I love you’ and blurt it all onto the world in less than 12h from a first kiss, but both knew this was different. They knew they would only risk their friendship and professional relationship for all or nothing, and suddenly there was no need to say so, they just knew.  And if it was all or nothing, if it mattered so much, if they knew they were going to give it their everything, it seemed absurd to even attempt to hide it from their best friends.

Strike accompanied Robin to Earl’s Court in their BMW, and they laughed about silly things as she drove, both filled with the biggest glee they could remember feeling, laughter and jokes coming with ease. At the empty flat, Robin dressed normally, they had second breakfast, and went out to buy Strike clothes, because it was something he urgently needed to do -he was wearing everything he had to wear, as his friends hadn’t dared to buy him more clothes without him to try them on- and really wasn’t looking forward to, but where Robin could really help.

Now that they were  _together_ , it actually turned out to be a fun experience. Robin knew his tastes to a ‘T’, so she mostly went ahead of him, picked clothes randomly, held them in the air in front of him to visualize and then either made a little sound of disapproval or smirked and threw it to the cart to try on. And the trying on, which Strike usually found annoying and boring, was fun. Not only because Robin would interrupt to make-up and ‘I’ll take that off’, but also because she’d hum sensual melodies to tease him as he got naked, and eat him with the eyes when he was looking good.

“We’ll grab some lunch now,” said Robin, throwing the bags into her Land Rover and leading the way to the pub in front, “and then we have to look for shoes and some elegant clothes, because you do use suits a lot for work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Strike grinned, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close to kiss her cheek, smiling. He’d already changed into brand new clothes the second they had new underwear and casual style clothes, his new jumper keeping him extra warm beneath the coat Robin had gotten him. “Thanks for doing this with me, I couldn’t bear to do it alone.”

“What’s the point of girlfriends if you still have to do annoying tasks solo, uhm?” Robin smirked, pecking his lips and walking into the pub, holding the door for him.

Surprisingly, work didn’t come into conversation during work either. They got busy discussing their favourite meals, favourite colours, favourite holiday spots, favourite music, getting to know each other in the most personal, intimate levels, discovering the funnier sides of the other, the most carefree and whipped sides, and joking around, laughing and fooling. When Strike’s phone buzzed and he glanced, his smile only grew. His face ached from smiling all day, and his belly from laughing so much, but girlfriend Robin with no walls was ten times funnier than friend Robin already was.

“Ilsa wants you to come for dinner, curry night,” said Strike.

“I suppose she needs to see us snog with her own eyes,” Robin commented with a glint in her eyes, amused. “Sure, let’s get the shock over with.”

“Besides, can’t really say no to curry.”

“Can’t say no to curry,” Robin agreed, smiling as he texted back. When he looked up, he noticed Robin had a stain from the bacon rolls she’d eaten, just by the side of her lip.

“Oh, you have…” he pointed to his own mouth for reference, but Robin seemed confused. “Here, let me,” he smiled mischievously and licked the stain off before kissing her, drowning a giggle that her lips emitted.

“Sneaky Strike,” she murmured, blushed.

“Couldn’t be Lightning Strike, so you’ll have to settle with the next best.” Robin laughed easily, the high of newfound love taking it all from her.

Later, with the Land Rover full of bags of clothes, shoes and various items, including some extras Strike had insisted on buying her, and  Strike’s card a few hundred pounds lighter, Robin drove them through dark London towards Wandsworth, having texted Max not to wait up for her, because she was heading to Nick and Ilsa’s with Strike. Traffic was dense, but they didn’t mind, because they had each other, shouting-singing along the radio and mocking each other teasingly.

“Do you think someone will try to kill us again soon?” asked Robin suddenly. “Because we both live with people, one of whom is pregnant, perhaps we should… isolate? I mean if they blow Nick and Ilsa’s house up—,”

“Sh, don’t even say it,” said Strike. “No, I don’t think they’ll try the same strategy when it already failed. Usually killers stick with what works, like Laing and his knives, the MO tend to be the same for as long as it’s effective, and IEDs are far too unpredictable and complex, besides it takes a lot of effort, time and money to make one I suppose, and they already spent a lot of time and careful planning to do it the first time for it to not work. My guess is they’ve either given up now the police is looking and they know we’re looking, or they’re done spending so much effort with nothing, they’ll wait for the perfect chance and hit and run, you know? Probably try to catch us alone, if they know our habits. Still… yes, I guess living with people is a risk we can’t sustain right now, but… might be what keeps everyone safe, right? Nobody’s coming for me at Nick and Ilsa’s, neighbourhood full of families, a police station two streets by, two fit men in the house and Ilsa’s pregnant but she used to have good moves, besides too snoopy neighbours that will call the police the second something sounds odd. And nobody’s coming to you and Max’s, apartment building full of people, worst place to try to kill someone.”

“All right,” Robin nodded, a bit calmer. “I just want to make sure… you know, everyone’s safe. On other news, I passed from my family today and they’ll returning home tomorrow so I did compromise on having lunch with them before they go. Want to tag along? Only girl in the family’s boyfriend, doomed to be fun.” She said with amusement.

“As fun as a visit to the dentist,” he said sarcastically, and she laughed.

“There’ll be food!”

“I was already convinced, because you’ll be there,” said Strike putting a warm hand on her knee.

“Sure it’s unrelated to the mention of food? Food? Food!” she added fooling around, making him laugh.

“Food!” roared Strike, getting her to laugh too. “Ah, you got me.” He snorted a laugh, shaking his head.

“With the money you got now, you could buy like… a thrillion tons of lasagna.”

“I could buy loads of caviar.”

“What does caviar taste like?”

“Uhm… like snot,” he joked, and she sniggered, not caring she could hardly advance in the car because of how congested traffic was. “Fancy snot. I’m sure if it wasn’t trendy, the rich wouldn’t eat it. Everyone thinks it’s disgusting, they keep eating it only because everybody is afraid they’ll be looked down upon if they speak,” Robin laughed harder. “You know what I’ll actually do with all this money?”

“What?”

“First, get my belongings compensated, which we’ve done. Second, find myself a proper home, nothing too fancy, I need to be able to afford the daily costs on my salary, but I want to buy a property so no developer can take it away from me. And then, I’m going to grab a healthy amount of savings for my account, another for the agency, nothing too fancy for me but perhaps for the agency… and with all the leftovers, including the money Charlotte and Matthew gave us… I’m going to donate it to a good cause. Make something good with the charity we were given since we don’t need so much money.”

“Do you seriously want to reject being rich and carefree for years to come? After all the issues you’ve had with money?” Robin asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Strike looked nervously at her. “Is that a total turn off?”

Robin grinned and shook her head, eyeing him as the car came to a halt with traffic again.

“It’s a total turn on. Have you thought where to put the money yet? Macmillan again?”

“Yes and no, this time… I’m going to give it to a charity that supports amputee veterans and helps them start over when they get medical discharge off the army. I thought of how hard it was for me, how I found myself with no money or anything… and I want to change it for the others. Is that too self-centred?”

“Self-centred, are you joking?” Robin snorted. “Cormoran, that’s the most thoughtful gesture, you’re just… you’ve got the biggest heart, I mean it.”

“I also thought, since I still have more money than I feel comfortable with… I want to do something grand for Nick and Ilsa’s baby, but I don’t know what. And get Lucy’s kids new football equipment, Lucy told me they’re very into footy now and Jack’s finally made it to the starting roster so… it’s my way of saying I’m proud, well done, keep it up, you know? And in Lucy’s world I can’t get Jack something and pass from the others all the time,” Robin snorted, smiling. “And I’ll get Ted some supplies for his boat, Jowanet. He’s constantly in it, and the boat is old, needs some regular maintenance so he can keep going to see Joan. I also figured, I want to get your parents something too, they travelled here and they’ve been so kind and supportive… so if you can figure out what they need, I’ll get it and send it over. And that should do it, everyone else who donated big has a ton of money won’t even notice what they’ve given me but… I want to compensate those I know made a big sacrifice for us.” Surprisingly, he heard Robin sniffle and he turned to her, surprised to see her hurriedly trying to hide the fact that she was crying. “Why are you crying, love?” he asked, worried.

“Nothing, is just…” Robin shrugged. “You’re so kind and generous it warms my heart, that’s all. I couldn’t help but think how happy Matthew would be to suddenly have hundreds of thousands of pounds, how he wouldn’t think even for a second of giving back… he’d say, ‘if they gave it to me now it’s mine’ or something. I just love everything that sets you both apart. And did you just call me love?”

Strike half smiled sweetly, and caressed his cheek with his knuckles.

“I know, I’m not really one for cute little nicknames but… did you like it?”

“I did.”

“Good, ‘cause I liked feeling it.” Taking advantage of the traffic, Strike kissed her in a way that for a moment, made Robin forget about her driving knowledge.

A fter a considerable amount of time and series of messages with Nick and Ilsa updating them on the traffic situation, the duo finally made it to  Wandsworth and Robin parked expertly not far from the Herberts’ house.

“Ready for the intensity of Ilsa Herbert?” Strike asked removing his belt.

“In one second,” Robin dug in her purse for the medical inhaler she’d been using since the fire and gave it a good inhalation. “Don’t your lungs get all… yucky?”

“Sometimes,” Strike agreed. He, too, had been given one of those he was supposed to use at least five times a day. “Good now?”

“Yeah, better. Let’s go.”

Holding hands, they both walked nervously down the dark street, wrapping their coats tight at how cold the day was. At last, they reached the house and Strike gave Robin a quick peck before pressing the doorbell, wanting to take full advantage of every minute alone that they had.  While they waited for Nick or Ilsa to open up, one of the Herbert’s cats, Ricky or Ossie, meowed and rubbed itself against the door.

“Hi you…” Strike slid a hand into the mail slit and saw the green eyes, snorting a laugh as the cat tried to grab his hand. “Look at that bloody bastard.” Strike sniggered and Robin rolled eyes, chuckling.

“Ricky, you saying hi mate?” they heart Nick’s voice, and soon the door opened and their friend appeared, all smiles. “Hello there lovebirds! I see the shopping was good!” he added seeing the new clothes on his friend and the bags the duo had in their hands to leave in Strike’s room.

“Thanks to Robin, otherwise I would’ve buggered it all off,” Strike echoed Robin’s most typical insult and Nick laughed, welcoming Robin with an air kiss on the cheek.

“That haircut fits you really nicely Robin,” he told her, and Robin grinned.

“Thanks Nick! How’s everything going?”

They caught up while they walked into the house and saw Nick was cooking a delicious curry. Ilsa, he told them, was working in the office upstairs and would be right back when she finished cracking her brains with some complicated case that had kept her in court all morning. When it became time to sit for dinner and Ilsa still hadn’t appeared, Robin decided it was time to drag her out of the office and trotted the familiar way upstairs, gently knocking on the door frame of the office. After weeks having lived there when she left her husband, she knew the ins and outs quite well.

“Yeah?” Ilsa asked from inside.

“Can your bestie come in?” Robin inquired.

“Robin! Yes, come in,” Robin smiled opening the door and saw Ilsa hidden beneath a pile of law books on her desk, the glasses slightly crocked to one side from all the hours there. Ilsa stood up, grinning despite her obvious tiredness, and when she hugged Robin, her swollen four-months-pregnant belly pressed against Robin’s own belly. “I know you’re busy but dinner is ready.”

“Ah, well, I’ll keep going tomorrow, bloody difficult cases,” Ilsa rolled eyes and smiled. “How are you? You guys slept together last night then?” she added with a wink.

“Best sex of my life,” Robin admitted, and Ilsa laughed as they walked down the corridor.

“He has a fame, for what I’ve heard. So you guys good?”

“We’re good, really,” Robin smiled. “He told me he loves me.” Ilsa’s jaw dropped.

“For real?! Our Cormoran?!”

“Yes,” Robin blushed, nodding.

“What did you say?”

“That I love him too, it’s the truth,” Robin shrugged. “I know I denied it a hundred times but you weren’t supposed to know before him, right?”

“That’s true,” Ilsa half smiled, satisfied. “I’m happy for you, Robin. It’s not that I think there’s anything wrong with being single, I don’t… but when you have that type of job and that type of stress… you need someone who gets it, and a good shag too, now and then. Something bigger than a best friend for sure, I mean I don’t know how I’d handle days like today without my Nick. I’d gone insane.”

Robin smiled softly at her. The Herberts’ relationship always restored her faith in love and marriage.

To her surprise, Ilsa was completely normal the rest of the night. No teasing, no weird looks, no pushing, nothing, completely calm and knowing her place as a friend. And when Strike mentioned they had lunch the next day with Robin’s family, and they had called Ted too because he was also returning to Cornwall the same day in the afternoon so they’d make it a family thing, Ilsa had a perfect chance to have teased or given them ‘the look’, but she limited herself to suggesting they’d buy a good wine or something.

Overall, it was a nice evening, and it took Robin a bit, as she helped Ilsa  load the dishwasher, to realize that now she was supposed to go…  _alone_ . Back to Earl’s Court.  As he stomach sunk with the idea, Ilsa seemed to know exactly what she was thinking.

“You know what, it’s late and someone is trying to kill you so…” Ilsa shrugged and then added casually. “Why don’t you and Corm share the guest room tonight? You can drive back in the morning with the light of day, right?”

“Brilliant idea!” Strike was coming in bringing some leftovers to the fridge. “You can use one of the pyjamas we just bought, one of my shirts will be like a nightshirt to you.”

“It’s true I had a couple glasses of wine without realizing I had to drive later,” said Robin, trying not to sound as pleased as she was. “Yes, I’ll stay, thanks guys.”

It wasn’t until she slid next to Strike in the bed, after a quick revision of whose side of the bed each preferred -Robin was luckily a right side person, which fit Strike better with his leg- that she realized it was a bit weird.

“Oh,” she murmured suddenly in the dark. “We have never shared a bed before.”

“But we’ve shared a room, a car, and a sofa,” Strike shrugged, and rolled over to face her, wrapping an arm around her waist. She was wearing a brand new t-shirt of his, and gym shorts that were also brand new, the cord of them helping to keep the huge things from falling. “I’m happy you’re here,” he added kissing her shoulder.

“Me too,” Robin rolled over to face him, putting her hand on his between them. “Goodnight, love,” she whispered, leaning to kiss him softly.

“Sleep well,” he smiled at her in the dark and closed his eyes, feeling at peace just from knowing she was right there.

Neither of them saw Ilsa and Nick peek into the room in the morning, smiling as they caught Robin sprawled on the bed like a star, sleeping peacefully, and Strike hugging her like a pillow, with his head on her shoulder as he snored away.

  
  



	10. Conflict

**Chapter 10: Conflict.**

The first month of Strike and Robin’s relationship was truly one of a kind, and it wasn’t just them that became aware of it. Their respective families constantly pointed out the fact that, even when they had many cases to make them stressed and anxious, not to mention investigating the IEDs and the fire in their agency, they seemed more relaxed, in good spirits and smiley than ever. Their friends also commented how happy they looked, individually, on different occasions, and even at work things seemed to go better. If Strike and Robin had always been a good team, as professional partners who kept things professional in the office and romantic outside of it, they were completely explosive. The closer they got, the more their employees commented they seemed to share one same brain twice the normal size, which made directing their team easily, and even though none of their employees knew their bosses were together until two weeks into the relationship when, for Valentine’s Day, it became too obvious when both of them received presents at the office the Friday right before Valentine’s, none had any problems, because it seemed to work perfectly well and at work, nothing changed for worse.

That Valentine’s Day was also the happiest Strike and Robin could possibly remember having, they planned things together and went for a film, which they’d never done before and they hardly had time to do alone anyway, a nice dinner, and a spa weekend, returning on Monday thoroughly well-sexed-up, relaxed and in love, Robin with a brand new bracelet and Strike with a new book of poetry in Latin he’d been trying to find, so dirty but so laughable he and Robin had laughed thoroughly and blushed while reading it. The fact that in late February they went together, with Nick and Ilsa, to Vanessa and Oliver’s wedding, only spiced their relationship up.

Because at that wedding, Strike didn’t ignore the way Robin smiled and teared-up, seeing how romantic and beautiful the ceremony was, as Vanessa read personalised vows, and Robin didn’t miss the way he made an effort and took her for dancing all night, romantically swaying and whispering sweet nothings by her ear.

It actually took two months for their happy bubble to break in the most horrendous way.

Robin and Strike had gone to the pub one Saturday for lunch to celebrate a recent case, a difficult one, which they’d just closed and earned good money from, and they were on third drinks when Nick phoned Strike.

“Tell him to join us,” said Robin, sipping from her beer. Strike smiled fondly at her while pressing the phone to his ear, but his smile suddenly dropped and his face changed in such way Robin suddenly felt sobered up in empathy.

“Nick, slow down. My sister what?” Strike repeated. Robin was already up and gathering their things at his words, and when Strike turned pale, she pulled him to his feet and led him out of the pub, towards her car. Whatever it was, if it involved a doctor calling, Lucy, and Strike getting ashen pale, it wasn’t good. “We’re on our way, Nick… thank you,” Strike turned to Robin as they slid into the car. “We have to go to Nick’s hospital, King’s College in Brixton, I’ll set the GPS for you,” Strike was already pushing buttons in the device Robin’s parents had gifted her for the Land Rover for Christmas.

“What’s happened?” asked Robin as she drove. “You’ve gone pale.”

“Lucy had a car accident with the whole family,” said Strike, his voice filled with a different time of tension Robin hadn’t heard in him before, filled with fear. “Remember she commented the boys had football against a Brixton team this morning? Apparently on the way back home or something somebody crashed against them, hit and run… Nick said he was hanging by the A&E having a coffee on his break when he saw a ton of ambulances coming and he saw Lucy and Jack be wheeled in, he hasn’t seen the others but he asked around and they were all being attended, the boys, Greg, everyone. Nick sounded… not good. It’s not good.”

Robin’s stomach had dropped, knotted, and her heart was racing in sharing fear. She extended a hand to squeeze his while they moved in the car. She knew his belief that every time he was in a high he had to be afraid for the downfall, and even though she normally tried to take it away from him, today she saw no way to do so.

“Breathe, okay?” Robin said tensely, her thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand. “King’s College is a great hospital, big trauma centre, whatever they have they’ll receive the best possible care.” Strike nodded, and Robin saw he couldn’t talk. He looked haunted. “Call Eric,” she suggested suddenly, “call him, he’ll get information.”

“Good idea,” said Strike, and his voice was hoarse and congested.

As he tried to breathe and not think of worst case scenarios, or of seeing Jack in a hospital bed  _again_ , Strike inwardly thanked Robin for the way she drove diligently, fast as she could and through every shortcut he’d ever learned from Nick’s father, the cabbie, that could help them. At last, they managed the route in twenty minutes, and Nick, who apparently had managed to sneak out of work, was waiting for them by the receptionist’s desk.

“This is what I know,” said Nick as soon as they rushed to each other, he looked tense too, and somewhat anguished. “The car accident was bad, very bad, someone pushed them off the road and took off, they’ve gotten police to investigate. Anyway, Lucy’s in the theatre, and so is Jack but Adam’s just with the paediatrician and I just saw him so let’s get you there, Lucy has broken knee they’re fixing and some internal injury from the blunt force of the belt, a bit of a bleeding but the doctor wasn’t too worried, and she was in the middle back seat, which is the safest, so she’s the least hurt with Adam. Adam and Jack were also in the back, and Adam was in a booster’s seat, since he’s nine, so he was quite well protected and he only has some bruises, scratches from glass and the scare of his life, but I soothed him down a little,” said Nick as their rushed into the hospital, him guiding them to the children’s ward. “As for Jack, he hit his head hard against the window and got quite the concussion, and they’re treating him in the theatre for a dislocated shoulder but that’s all. Well, he and Lucy will undoubtedly be dealing with neck pain and back pain for a while, but it’s not life-threatening.”

“And Greg and Luke?” Strike asked as they exited the lift.

“They uh…” not hearing an answer, Strike and Robin stopped walking and turned to Nick, seeing shock and horror written all over his face.

“Nick?” asked Robin with her heart in his throat.

“I’m so sorry,” Nick muttered. “My mate confirmed they’re dead. They were in the front and…” he took a deep breath and shook his head. “Slammed hard against the wall of a gas station, the entire front of the vehicle sunk and… Greg was dead by the time the ambulance got him, and I saw them wheel Luke to the theatre but he lasted minutes.”

Strike felt his lungs constrict. He had never felt close to neither, but Lucy had heard him refer to his eldest son as a complete arsehole, and it was her son, the first-born, the soon-to-be thirteen year old who had made her a mother. How was he supposed to tell his sister her son and husband were both dead at once? How was he going to tell Jack, when he came from surgery, and the distressed nine year old waiting for his only uncle to offer some comfort? His eyes filled with tears in empathy, shaking his head. He knew the pain of losing a parent. Adam might be a whiny little prick but neither he or Jack deserved it, certainly not this young. Greg was many things Strike disliked, but he was a hell of a father and husband, the only things that had made him respectable and appreciated to Strike, how were they going to go on without him? Or with burying their own brother?

Robin had covered her mouth with her hands and closed her eyes for a moment, but when she opened them she glanced at Strike, eyes filled with tears. Then they heard Adam’s crying and screaming for his parents down the corridor and Strike marched off, bursting in a little consult. Before the doctor could stop him, Strike lifted a hand.

“I’m his uncle,” he said simply, and rushed to the brunette boy crying his eyes out on a hospital bed, his clothes blood-stained and dirty. “Adam, I’m here,” Strike rushed to hug him, not knowing what else to do, and Adam, in spite of their odd relationship, hugged him.

“I want Mum!” he cried out, thin and small as he was. “Dad!”

“They can’t come right now,” Strike held him tight. “But I’m going to stay, okay? You’re going to be okay.”

Robin turned to Nick, both on the brink of tears because watching a little boy go through something so scary and be so distressed was enough to turn the toughest of man with a soul into a puddle.

“Is there any more family to call?” she asked.

“I guess Greg’s parents? I think he was an only child,” Nick shrugged. “I don’t know… told my mate who’s with Lucy that my best friend’s her brother and he’d be right here, so I suppose they won’t be calling anyone else.

It took them a full half an hour to calm Adam, and by the time they managed, Strike looked like he’d just returned from war, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger, sadness, frustration, guilt and worry that was new to Robin. He hugged his nephew close, kissed the top of his head, helped him get rid of his blood-stained shirt, surely with blood that wasn’t his, and gave him is own jumper, which was too big and almost fit him like a dress, even with the sleeves rolled up, but at least wasn’t full of his own family’s blood.

“Adam’s all right, physically,” Dr Layla Robbins spoke to them, giving the boy a glass of water and gently cleaning his face and hands off blood and dust with a wet tissue. “He said his back hurts a bit, but we did X-Rays and there’s nothing, it’s just the force of impact, we’ll give him painkillers for a few days until it passes, I’ve already given him one. If you’re his uncle you can take him, he doesn’t have to stay. And I’ve gotten a call his brother Jack’s out of surgery, so I’m going to check on him and call you when you can see him. I advise you go to the cafeteria and get poor Adam a good lime blossom herbal tea.”

“Okay, thanks,” Strike nodded, and saw the doctor go.

“What happened to Jack?” Adam asked, looking confused at his uncle. He seemed so small now, so fragile, that Strike would’ve carried him in his arms if it wasn’t because he was recovering from surgery himself, and his prosthesis was new, fancy and great, but his stump was the same old one.

“He hit his head and dislocated a shoulder, but he should be fine,” said Strike soothingly, speaking with a gentleness he hadn’t used with Adam since he was a toddler, at least. “Let’s get you to the cafeteria, okay? We can get you some tea to help you be calm, and get you some food, you haven’t eaten, right?”

“Not since this morning, but I’m not hungry,” said Adam, his eyes swollen with tears. He walked slowly, clinging onto Strike, who kept an arm around his shoulders.

“Well try to eat a bit, it’ll make you feel better. And then we can go see Jack, would you like that?” Adam nodded.

“And Luke?” asked Adam then, looking up at Strike, who was suddenly struck with the realization that he had Lucy’s eyes. Just like he had never until Jack was in hospital noticed how much the middle boy resembled Leda, he hadn’t realized that in retrospect, Luke was a lot like Greg, and Adam was a lot like Lucy. For a moment, he felt like he was a teenager again, guiding his little sister through their ugly childhood.

“Luke… he’s too hurt to see him. Perhaps later, I’d have to find a doctor and ask but… don’t worry, okay? Because when someone’s too hurt they give them medicine to help them sleep, so they don’t have any idea of what’s going on, and he won’t be so scared,” said Strike as they walked.

“And Mum and Dad?”

“Your Mum’s with her doctor still, they’ll get us when we can see her,” said Strike. “And Dad…” he couldn’t say it, so he lied. “I don’t know. We’ll find out later. Mummy will have my head if I don’t make sure her boys are okay first, won’t she?” he added with a little smile, and Adam snorted.

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“I have to wrap up some things at work, but I’ll find you ASAP, okay?” said Nick, and pulled two lollipops from his coat, smiling and handing then to Adam. “This is for you, so you feel better soon. Give Jack the other?”

“Okay,” Adam smiled small, taking them. “Thank you Uncle Nick. Gimme another for Luke?”

“I don’t have more right now, but tell you what, I’ll get more later,” Nick looked sadly at them and squeezed Strike’s shoulder. “Be back soon.”

“Thanks, Nick.”

Strike had never been more thankful for Robin than he was for the half hour they had to wait in the cafeteria. Robin spoke softly and kindly to Adam, got him to eat some, to finish a whole lime blossom that left him sleepy, to smile and even to laugh a little, so that when Dr Robbins came to guide them to Jack, Adam took both Strike’s hand and Robin’s, and Strike remembered Adam was ‘the clingy one’. Ever since he was a baby, Lucy had always commented how out of the three boys, Adam was the most affective, and the one who demanded physical affection the most, which had sometimes bothered Greg, who thought that was a little gay. Lucy, on the other hand, had relished it.  Strike didn’t know if it was a little gay or not,  nor understood why being ‘a little gay’ would be a bad thing,  but seeing how lost the boy looked, how worried, he told himself if making him feel a little better was as easy as to hold his hand through the storm, he’d damn well do it.  Other kids were just annoying pricks demanding big gifts and shit, and now, all Adam asked of him was his hand. It wasn’t so hard.

T he hard part was to see Jack man up for his little brother while on a bed, when he was a month from turning twelve, and shouldn’t have to. Jack’s head had a thick bandage, and he was probably in pain, probably as worried and anguished as Adam, and tired, with his left shoulder in a cast and his arm on a sling, but he didn’t shed a tear. He smiled at Adam and asked how he was, ruffled his hair and assured him he was fine, that this was nothing.

“They just like to exaggerate the bandaging, like Mum does,” Jack reassured his stressed brother, who smiled. “And the nurses are super pretty, so this isn’t too bad.” Jack only needed to look at Strike to know he had every reason to worry, and every reason to hide it from Adam, a December child who was the most sensitive of all three. So he waited until he and Adam had had a lollipop each and Adam had fallen asleep sitting on a chair with his head on the mattress by Jack’s side to ask any questions. “Uncle Corm…” he looked at Strike, and the detective saw the precise moment in which his jaw set, like a soldier ready for battle. “Are my parents dead?” he asked bluntly, so much that Strike and Robin both were surprised. “You can tell me…”

“Your Mum is alive, and she’s better than you, Nick said it’s just a fractured knee and some internal bleeding, they’ll keep her a few days at most,” Strike reassured him. “Your Dad and Luke…” he nodded, and Jack took a deep breath. “They took the worst part. I’m so sorry, Jack, the doctors couldn’t… they’re gone.” Jack bit his lip and nodded, his eyes glassy.

“It was so stupid,” Jack murmured. “The whole thing… Luke had hurt his ankle a little during the game, they were icing it, and he was too squeezed in the back, because he’s so tall and all. And Mum’s small, so Dad suggested she’d leave him her seat and then they could put his foot on top of a bag to have it high a little, help him feel better, and Mum agreed. And then we were thinking where to have lunch, debating whether bloody McDonalds or what… and we felt a soft hit in the back. A car was harassing us. Mum called 999, because it wouldn’t stop, it was… a white Lexus, shiny and luxurious. Dad tried to get it off us, but they were crazy Uncle Corm, kept trying to nudge us off the road.”

Strike scowled.

“You remember all of that with that head injury?” he asked, astonished.

“I don’t remember much of the rest of the day, or last week for the matter…” Jack half shrugged with his good shoulder. “But yeah, I remember that. I turned to try and see the driver, but couldn’t. You always tell me the police’s best witness is one who pays attention to detail so I tried but… I could only know it was a white Lexus. Was too close to see the plaque.”

“That’s incredible, Jack, well done,” Robin congratulated him. Jack sighed deeply.

“Mum told the police but they didn’t come fast enough. No matter what Dad did, the Lexus was on top of us, pushing hard… and then we didn’t feel it for a moment, and it hit hard in the back, took Dad off the road. That’s the last I remember. Do you think that’ll be enough for the police?”

“Well they won’t investigate alone,” Strike assured him. “They’ll have us. And I promise you whoever did this…” he felt anger rising in his throat. “They’re going to regret this day for the rest of their miserable lives. You try to rest, okay? Close your eyes for a bit. Perhaps we’ll manage to get you in the same room as your Mum.”

“Am I going to be okay?” Jack asked with a pained expression, looking down at Adam. “’Cause Adam’s little and Mum… they need me around now. I’m the only one who knows how to work the PlayStation, and Mum’s a mess with technologies.”

Strike smiled, his eyes filling with tears. He didn’t want his nephew to even think of needing to take care of Lucy and Adam. He’d gone through that as a child, and Jack wouldn’t join the club.

“You’re going to be okay, but don’t worry about them, uh? I promise you, Jack… I’m not going anywhere. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Okay…” Jack closed his eyes, releasing a deep breath, and put a hand on his brother’s arm, rubbing with his thumb. As Jack fell asleep, Robin rubbed Strike’s back soothingly.

“I’ll call Wyatt, okay?” Robin offered. “He finished psychology. He’ll help them out with this.”

“If you think he’s half as good as you…” Strike nodded. “All right. Listen, can you stay with the boys? I’m going to try and find anything about Lucy.”

“Sure, I’ll be right here.”

Strike stumbled out of the room, taking deep breaths and using his inhaler as he tried to find someone who’d tell him how Lucy was. At last he found the Chief of Trauma, who told him how Luke and Greg had died, and how Lucy was doing okay after surgery, a bit weak from blood loss, but her knee fracture was a small one and not a very complex one, and she’d be discharged in three days at most, while he wanted to keep Jack for forty-eight hours to make sure his brain was on the mend.  They had already told Lucy about the deaths and that the younger boys were all right and with Uncle Cormoran, and had given her some medication to help her be calm, so when Strike entered her room, he didn’t know what to expect, but nothing could’ve prepared him for what he saw.

L ucy looked miserable. Not miserable like when Leda died, not miserable like when Joan died, she looked miserable like someone who’s been left utterly alone in the world, who expects nothing good any more, like a child crying alone in an avenue full of people. Lucy had lost the man she loved, her biggest support over majority of her life, the one who had always been there for her, who had taken their three kids and driven to Cornwall to give her a family hug after Joan had died. It was then that Strike realized how, despite Greg’s many faults, he had done the world for Lucy, while he hadn’t. And her firstborn, one of the lights of her eyes, was gone too. And most likely, she was blaming herself.

She didn’t look up when he entered the room, and he, for a moment, didn’t move, because Strike had never seen his sister so badly and didn’t know what to do. She was just lying there, alone in a dimly-lit room, with nothing to look forward too, ugly scratches all over and her left leg over a bunch of cushions,her body slumped like an old battered doll. The way Lucy sobbed was the most tragic of all, because it was exhausted, tired, without energy, her blue eyes filled with indescribable sadness.

Taking a deep breath, Strike walked towards Lucy and reached out to grab her hand, which made her look up, so he wrapped his other arm around her and kissed her forehead and her tear-stained cheek, and she sniffled.

“Stick,” she murmured tiredly, “they said Adam is alright, yeah?”

“Yes, he fell asleep with his head on Jack’s bed, they were talking. Robin is with them, she’s called Wyatt to talk to them, since he’s a psychologist, so he’ll come too, and Nick is just going to finish his shift and get to them, he’s the one who called us, he works here,” said Strike. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Ilsa comes as fast as she gets out of court and sees whatever amount of texts Nick’s left her, so the boys are going to have plenty of company.”

“All right…” Lucy nodded, and rubbed away her tears in the same way she had when one of their mother’s boyfriends made her cry and she didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing her be in pain. “And Jack? The doctor said he’s got brain injury, but that it wasn’t as bad as it sounds…”

“Well Jack has a hard head like his uncle,” Strike tried to joke, sitting on a chair by her bed and taking her hands in his. “He’s okay. Nick gave them lollipops, and Jack knows what’s happened, Adam… perhaps Wyatt can help me tell him when he wakes up. Jack’s smart, he knew something had happened, so…” Strike shrugged. “You should’ve seen him, he’s behaving like an eleven year old soldier, which I don’t like but… it’s true it says a lot of his character. Tough boy, put on a brave face for Adam and made sure Adam wouldn’t worry, comforted him and everything. He’s been great to his baby brother.”

Lucy smiled tearfully and nodded.

“Sounds like my Jack, he worships you, he’s doing whatever he thinks you’d do.”

“Then I’ll have to make sure he knows he’s just a child, and he doesn’t have to look after anyone. How are you doing, Luce? Does the knee hurt too much?”

“Next to my heart, it’s completely painless,” Lucy forced a smile. “They wanted us off the road, Stick. They pushed us… Greg lost control…” she broke into sobs and Strike moved to sit on the edge of the bed and wrap his arms tight around her.

“Jack remembers, he told us,” said Strike. “White Lexus. And Adam might remember bits too…” he rubbed her back soothingly and let her cry into his chest, the knot in his throat growing. “I will not stop until whoever’s done this to you pays with the full force of the law, Luce. I’m going to look after you and those boys, and I’m going to punish whoever’s done this.”

Lucy shuddered and took a deep breath, leaning into his chest.

“You never even liked them. Luke’s a complete arsehole and Greg’s… God knows what you thought of him,” Lucy sniffled, leaning back and looking away, taking a deep breath. “You should go back to the boys, Stick. And call my Dad so he can look after them, he’s a good grandfather… you’re a busy man,” she took a deep breath and Strike frowned, pained. “You don’t even know anything about any of them, aside from Jack… and I don’t want you to feel forced to deal with my family you don’t like and never paid any attention to just because it’s tragic. Life sucks, that’s not a novelty, people die every day…” she shrugged. “We’ll cope, we’ll deal with it. As soon as they let me move, I’ll go see the boys and when they discharge me, we’ll prepare the funerals and we’ll go on with our lives united, like we always have, and I’ll be mother and father, I can do that for them… nobody is going to bear the weight of that. If you’d wanted to take care of kids, you would’ve had your own or offered to babysit or something, I respect that, I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything, okay?” Lucy looked at Strike with determination and toughness and nodded to herself. “I’ve got this, Stick, don’t you worry about us. I’m not a little kid any more, I don’t need you to look after me or my family, or to take care of my problems, you have your life and I’ve got mine, and just because mine will never be the same doesn’t mean you should pay the price and have your life be wronged. All I ask is you stay with Jack and Adam until my Dad is here, and then he’ll take over and I promise you can go back to your thing. Don’t bother Ilsa, Nick and Robin, nor Wyatt… you guys have important stuff to do, we’re okay.”

S trike stared at her, frozen, for a long moment, trying to decide if this was pity party, if this was one of those occasions in which someone says ‘leave me alone’ when in reality what they want to say is ‘please don’t leave me’, when pride and stubbornness wins, but he knew Lucy better than he knew most people, he knew how it looked when she did that, and this wasn’t that. The way she put on a tough face, the way she looked at him filled with determination, the way she tried hard to pretend she hadn’t crumbled just now and to recover her composure quickly… it told Strike that now, Lucy said what she said because she truly believed that’s how things worked, and because he had disappointed her so much when it came to her family, that not only she didn’t expect anything from him any more when it came to them, but that it didn’t even pass by her mind to count him in. Strike should have seen it coming. When had Lucy asked him to babysit last? Probably since Jack was a baby, and he’d never said yes. He’d always had excuses, the army, something, and now that he thought about it, Lucy seemed to have understood his excuses were a way of not having to say ‘Lucy I don’t want shit with your kids’ because she had never asked him to do it since. When Lucy and Greg had gone on trips alone, like the honeymoon when Jack got sick, where was Strike? Not babysitting his nephews, even for a fucking weekend. Lucy had never even suggested it.

And not for the first time, Strike found himself filled with remorse and regret. Because he’d never bothered to take Greg for a drink just to bond with his only brother-in-law, just to make Lucy happy, he’d never volunteered to visit them, to spend time with the kids, or offered Greg a trip to watch football, even when they both liked it. Greg and Lucy made him birthday presents, but had he ever even known Greg’s birthday? Or Luke’s? He only had a vague idea that Luke must’ve been born in the winter, because he remembered he had been freezing cold when Lucy had sent him the first picture of the baby. Strike, with a prodigious memory, had never even tried to remember a single detail of Lucy’s life and family, and Lucy was painfully conscious of it, conscious that it wasn’t that he was forgetful, it was that he didn’t give a shit.

Strike realized now how much he would’ve preferred Lucy nagged him to do things, because at least then it’d mean she still had hopes on him, she still thought he could and should do some stuff… this, on the other hand, was much worse. This was Lucy saying ‘don’t worry Stick, I know you hate my family and so I love you and I’m not going to guilt trip you or force you into anything like I always do, you get to not give a shit, you get to go on with your life, I’m a big girl and I’ll take care of things alone’.  He had wanted nothing more than for her to stop guilt tripping him and expecting things of him…

And now that she’d finally become that person, Strike felt as if she’d just stabbed him  several times.

“All right, Luce,” Strike murmured at last and got up.

“Thanks, Stick. You’re a good brother.” Lucy closed her eyes calmly and Strike bit his lip and closed his eyes, which were full of tears. So this was what he had made her think a good brother was? Someone who didn’t do shit? Someone who she hadn’t even expected to show up much for their own aunt and uncle, when Joan had been sick, much less to look up after a family he wasn’t strictly related to?

Strike walked out the room like a zombie, his vision clouded by tears as he tried to find the men’s loo. So this is what it felt when the people who mattered the most stopped putting any expectations on you. It wasn’t liberating, like he had always thought it’d be. It felt like they’d given up on him. Like they didn’t believe in him. And worse… like they loved him too much to want to nag him any more, if it bothered so much.

And it suck.

  
  



	11. Carry on as if nothing really matters

** Chapter 11:  Carry on, as if nothing really matters. **

A fter a good, albeit quick, cry in the bathroom, Strike felt a bit better, as the knot in his throat and stomach softened, but he needed several uses of his inhaler for his lungs and to wash his face several times in the sink to make sure he wouldn’t scare Adam any further. Then, he called Rick Fantoni, who got so anxious hearing him he swore he’d be there ASAP ‘Oh my God my baby! Oh my God the boys! Fuck!’, and then he walked back through the hospital to the children’s ward, and he must’ve taken longer than he realized, because when he entered his nephew’s room, Jack was deep asleep, Adam had been moved to sleep in the bed next, tucked with Robin’s long coat, and Robin, Ilsa and Nick stood in a corner, chatting quietly. And Strike must not look as decent as he thought, because he saw fear in their eyes as they turned to face him.

“Oh dear is Lucy…?” Robin muttered in fear.

“She’s holding up,” said Strike, clearing his throat as his voice was unexpectedly hoarse. “She told me to come back to the boys and call Rick, her Dad, to look after the boys, and stay until he arrives, so I called, he’s on his way. He’s a good grandpa. I think Greg’s parents might be dead, I guess.”

His friends and girlfriend looked confused.

“Rick? But didn’t you tell her you’ve got this?” Nick inquired confused, and Strike shrugged.

“She doesn’t want me doing this, never even asked. She said I know nothing of her family save for Jack, which is true, she said I shouldn’t have bothered you guys, that we’re busy people and she doesn’t want to take us away from our busy lives and she doesn’t want me to have to deal with her family she knows I never liked. And it wasn’t a call for attention, it wasn’t a pity party, it was none of that, I’d know… you should’ve seen how she looked,” Strike sighed. “Like she was completely resignated. Like she’s so used to me making up excuses to not spend time with her family that she no longer expects anything from me, and like… shit, it’s like I’ve spent years wishing she’d stop nagging me, putting expectations on me for her to disappoint, wishing she’d just accept I don’t care about stupid parties and birthdays and children and shit and… now she has. She’s actually accepted it, it’s like she doesn’t want to fight me or bother me any more, she just wants us to be at peace, not to bother me. Lucy said she’s not a kid any more, that she’s a grown up and she’ll deal with everything, that I don’t have to worry, that she’ll come see the boys when they let her, and take them home when they discharge her, and go on, she’ll plan the funerals and everything. Lucy doesn’t even count me in any more.”

“For real?” Ilsa frowned. She had known Lucy and Strike all her life, she knew they didn’t always have the easiest relationship, but Lucy had always hoped Strike would change his ways and show up. She wasn’t prepared for her to stop being the nagging Lucy they all knew, loved, and sometimes mocked behind her back.

“Of course it’s for real Ilsa. Why should it even surprise me?” Strike puffed, shaking his head. “Where was I when she moved in with Ted and Joan? I hardly even wrote her a fucking letter. Where was I when Mum was killed and she was left alone? In the fucking army. How many times has she reached up to me, given me a chance in a silver platter to show up and prove I’m a good brother, and I’ve made some bad excuse to get away? The army’s been my excuse for twelve years, twelve, of not having to write to her, call her, send her stuff, be there for birthdays, holidays and family reunions… I nearly missed her wedding, for God’s sakes, and where was I when any of the boys was born? Miles away. The only time I was close was when Jack was born, and only because he was premature and came by total surprise, and even then I stayed in St Mawes instead of going with the others to the hospital in Falmouth, because I thought why would I be needed?” he ranted angry with himself. “And when Jack was in hospital and Lucy and Greg were in Rome? She hadn’t asked me to babysit them. She hadn’t even told me they’d be going, I didn’t even know it was her anniversary. She rather left her sons each in a different friend’s house with some strangers than call me and have to beg for me to show up. One time they travel alone, once, because of how hard it’s to find someone to look after the boys once a year for an anniversary, and they didn’t think of me. So congrats me, I got what I wanted, my sister’s never going to nag me about anything ever again, pretty sure she’ll never try to organize me birthday dinners again, she’ll never insist we do Christmas together again… she left things clearly, she said you have your life I’ve got mine, she was crystal clear. And she wasn’t even mad. She was given up. You shouldn’t pay the price and have your life be wronged, she said. We’re good, she said. Don’t you worry about us, she said. Don’t you bother…”

“Cormoran, she’s just having a horrible day, I’m sure she didn’t mean…” Robin tried to say.

“No offence love, but I’ve known her forty years, I know what she meant,” Strike sighed. “Before when I pissed her off she’d yell at me, now she just… accepts I’m a flake and doesn’t demand anything any more. And truly, how would she think differently? Imagine what it has to be to see your brother, with his fucking medal, the world thinks so highly of him, the hero, with his incredible cases… but he doesn’t even call you on your fucking birthday. Seeing how incredible his memory is with everything except with you and your family, so you know if he doesn’t even remember your birthday, your children’s birthdays, or that you’re sick and perhaps he could do your shopping for you until you feel better, it’s not because he’s forgetful, but because he _chooses_ to be a dickhead and a failure. What must it be to know the only sibling you’ve grown with chooses purposelly not to give a shit about you and your family? Well I wouldn’t know, ‘cause mine’s done nothing but stick into my life by force for forty years. Fucking…” he puffed deeply, lamenting he couldn’t smoke any more. “Look, let’s just…” he took a deep breath, calming himself. “We’ll wait until Rick comes and then we’ll talk with Adam and leave. I don’t even have any place here, I couldn’t even tell if they’re allergic to something. Jack’s friend’s father at the hospital when his appendix burst knew far more about Jack than I did, I can’t come now and pretend to be super uncle when I’m shit, I don’t know anything about them, I’ve no fucking idea how to look after them, and they’re way better off with Rick, Lucy included. I’ll call Ted, he knows more too. The only place I can really be of use is at the office, and that’s not pity party, that’s the blunt truth nobody likes to say but we all know is true.”

I lsa puffed and gave him a look of disdain.

“Are you ready to get your head off your arse or do I have to do it for you?” Ilsa snapped. Strike looked at her, surprised.

“What?”

“Cormoran Bloody Strike, you’re a detective or you’re not?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with—,”

“You were a shit uncle and a shit brother, so figure out how not to be, damn it,” Ilsa snarled, looking at him with no pity. “It’s your job to discover things so that’s what you do, or you think Ted and Joan automatically knew how to be surrogate parents? D’you think, perhaps, that Nick and I know perfectly well what we’re going to do when the baby arrives? Nobody knows shit until they have to face it, Corm, and you know that, you didn’t just flop in the army and were great. We all start off at zero, learn as we go and prove ourselves and the world how good we are and how good we can be at every single little thing we do, now, it’s your choice, you want to just go and agree with Lucy that you really have no remedy? That’s on you. But I thought you had more balls than that. Now is your chance Cormoran, choose what kind of man, person, uncle and brother you want to be, choose if you want to keep playing your same shit deck or you want a new one, but choose wisely because I’m afraid this is your last chance, or you’ll lose them forever, at least I’m pretty sure if Jack wakes up and doesn’t see you, he’ll never worship you ever again.”

A  hero proves himself when he’s faced with a challenge. What do you do? How do you react? Who else do you want to disappoint in one day?

Strike gulped and meditated those things, and then nodded.

“I want to stay,” he said at last. “And I want to figure out who Adam and Jack are, and help them out. I want to know them better than some classmate’s father. And I want to support them like they’ve always supported me.”

“Then do it,” said Ilsa, knowing sometimes all that worked with him was tough love. “It’s not too late to do better.”

“Uncle Corm?” Adam had woken up, and was rubbing his eyes with a hand. “My back hurts…”

Strike rushed to him, and with gentle words, he guided him to lie comfortably, tucked him in, and promised to get him some painkillers once the limit of hours from the last one had passed, offering instead to carefully give him a back rub.

“You getting a back rub, Adam?” Jack woke up and smirked at his brother. “Lucky you!”

“We’ll go in turns, patience,” Strike half smiled, rubbing Adam’s back with extreme gentleness.

“You give good rubs, Uncle Corm,” Adam admitted, yawning.

“Yeah? Shit maybe I chose the wrong job, should I do this instead?” with a snort, Adam nodded.

“You’d be rich.”

“How about we get Jack some food, uh?” Robin caressed his dark hair gently, looked sweetly at both boys. “Anybody hungry?”

“I’d eat a sandwich,” Jack nodded. “And I want water too. D’you want water, Adam?”

“Yes please,” Adam nodded.

“Nick and I’ll get it,” Ilsa offered. “You guys stay with your nephews.” She smiled and pulled Nick out of the room. Nick winked at Robin as he left.

“Are we your nephews now too, Robin?” asked Adam.

“Do you want to be?” replied Robin. Adam shrugged.

“You’re cool,” he replied. “Yes, would be nice.”

“Then I don’t see why I can’t be your aunt,” Robin smiled warmly.

“Then you have to be mine too,” Jack demanded. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Robin chuckled. “You’d be my first nephews then.”

“The first ones?!” Adam looked incredulous and Robin nodded.

“Which makes you the spoiled ones,” Robin winked, amused.

For a few minutes as the boys ate some, and Strike told them how much his mother couldn’t wait to come and see them when the doctor let her, things seemed okay. They almost forgot the horror of what had happened, but then there was a knock on the door and Wyatt peeked.

“Hi, may I?” he asked politely.

“Wyatt, hey, come on,” Robin took the empty food trays and put them away. “Let me introduce you, this is Jack, this is Adam, boys, this is our friend Wyatt Lightwood, he works with us.”

“Are you a detective too?” Jack asked.

Wyatt walked in, tall and strong, with short dirty blonde-light brown hair, wavy and messy, short dark blonde beard, thick eyebrows and round, big green eyes, his charming smile, and his gentle touch, and sat on a chair Strike offered him. With his soft and deep voice he gently explained he wasn’t a detective, but a psychologist, and his job was to help with interviews, reading people, trying to explain why some people did the stuff they did.

“So you can guess what people think?” asked Adam, and Wyatt chuckled sympathetically.

“Not quite, I’m just very good at understanding people’s feelings and actions,” said Wyatt. “And sometimes, when somebody has a very rough day, I help them cope with it. So when your aunt told me you guys were having the worst day ever, I thought I’d pay a visit.”

“Are you here to tell us Dad and Luke are dead?” Adam asked bluntly, surprising them all. Wyatt raised his eyebrows and sighed, nodding.

“You figured it out, didn’t you?” Wyatt asked softly, his warm green eyes looking into Adam’s blue ones.

“When nobody wants to talk about something, it means is bad,” Adam shrugged, and Jack looked sadly at his brother. “We haven’t seen or heard of Dad and Luke in hours, they were either dead or nearly dead. It’s like when Grandma Joan died, and it cost Dad the longest time to tell us, he looked like he was about to puke.”

“Do you understand what happened today, Adam?” asked Wyatt gently.

“I think so… we went to play football, all three of us had games. Luke twisted his foot, was limping, so Mum and Dad left him Mum’s seat so he had space to stretch it… Mum came to the back and sat in the middle to help copilot, because Dad doesn’t know much about Brixton roads and Mum said she could help. And then someone began to hit our car,” said Adam slowly, his eyes glassy and his frown burrowed. “Mum called police, but then they hit us really hard, and I saw the car just… out of control, hit against a building, hard. I closed my eyes automatically when we impacted, and when I opened them… there was smoke, the car had lost balance in the hill by the building and rolled sideways several times so I was upside down, and there was blood on me that wasn’t mine. And nobody was awake. I shouted at them, but they were sleeping, until the police and the ambulance came. And I could see Dad, and he had blood all over his face, dripping down, so… I figured he was likely… dead, ‘cause my friend Bastien told me when someone bleeds too much, they die, and that was a lot of blood.”

“Shit, Adam…” Jack sighed. “Adam, I’m sorry I was sleeping, I didn’t mean to…”

“Hey, it’s okay, none of you owes apologizes,” said Wyatt calmly. Strike was thankful he had taken over, because Strike himself felt putrid inside, incapable of uttering a word. “I want you both to know what happened today is a completely random event, it’s not what’s going to happen every time you get in a car, and you probably won’t meet a lot of people who have had car accidents. This was also not an accident. As you saw, someone purposelly tried to take you off the road, and we don’t know if that person was in their right mind, we don’t know if it was someone who disliked your parents for some reason, we don’t know the reason why they did what they did, but we know the police are investigating and will find out and punish them, and we know if someone wants to hurt you, they will find a way. It doesn’t matter if you decide to stay home and never get in a car, if they don’t hurt you one way, they’ll find another. I don’t say this to scare you, I say it so you understand this didn’t happen because you wanted to play football. Because you wanted to play football, you got to spend your Dad’s and Luke’s last day having fun with them, enjoying them, being happy with them. And because of a terrible person, they’re gone. Adam, your Dad lost control of the vehicle not because of anything he did wrong, but because even the best drivers can’t always control a car if they’re being hit so strongly, and the fact that the car first crashed and then still had force to spin around tells you how hard you were hit. So hard, it’s lucky you, Jack and your Mum are alive, you know? And your family wasn’t sleeping while you panicked. They weren’t ignoring you. Jack hit his head very hard, and lost consciousness.”

“How’s that?” Adam asked, confused. “I hit my head sometimes and I don’t do that.”

“Well it only happens with serious hits, the ones that get you in a hospital bed like Jack is. The brain puts itself to sleep to prevent further damage like…” Wyatt pursed his lips in thought. “Like you closed your eyes when you felt you were going to crash. Something that happens that we have no control over, it just happens. If Jack had had a choice, he’d have stayed awake with you, and so would your Mum, who had other injuries that made her lose consciousness, and your Dad and Luke. If they’d been able to, they would’ve done anything to stay awake with you, waiting for help.”

“That’s true,” Jack nodded. “I would’ve made you company, Adam.” Adam bit his lip and nodded.

A fter a deep breath, Adam looked at Wyatt, and asked;

“What happens to Dad and Luke now they’re dead?”

“To them it’s like going to sleep. They’ll be resting in peace, with nothing to bother them or make them upset, with no pain, no sense of time, life or death, they’ll just be gone,” said Wyatt. “The adults in your family will organize a funeral, like that of your Grandma Joan. And it’ll be very sad, because funerals are when the living say goodbye to those we love and can’t ever talk with again, but it’s necessary to put their bodies to rest too, in a grave, have you ever visited a grave?”

“Grandma Leda’s,” said Adam with a nod. “We leave flowers.”

“That’s how we tell the dead we still remember them, so they know they’re not forgotten. Nobody likes being forgotten, right?” Adam shook his head and Wyatt looked from him to Jack. “As for the living… you have the roughest part. Losing a father or a brother is always a tough blow, and when it happens both at once is twice as hard, so your Mum will be very sad, and you may be very sad too. You may feel tired, like you don’t want to do anything or get out of bed, you may not want to play, to be with friends, or go to school. Perhaps you’ll want to put on a strong face and pretend nothing’s changed so your mother doesn’t get sad seeing you sad, but you should know that’s not healthy. Or you may really feel like playing and thinking of something else. Whatever you do, as long as it goes with how you really feel, it’s okay. You play if you want, you stay in bed if you want, but remember you are not to take care of Mummy, and you are not to hide your feelings to make anybody feel better. And you don’t apologize for how you feel, okay? Everybody deals with loss their own way. You’ll miss your Dad and your brother, and perhaps that’ll make you want to cry, then just cry, you’ll feel better then, guaranted. Or you’ll feel angry, or you’ll just want to forget about it and play something. All of that is okay. Whatever you feel, is valid, it’s okay. And crying doesn’t make you weak, doesn’t make you a girl, doesn’t make you any less than anyone, it makes you human, okay? Everybody cries, even grown-ups. It’s okay. But I want you to remember that wounds like these never truly heal, but do feel a bit less horrible with time, and that if you tell your family when you feel bad and let them take care of you and comfort you, over time, the pain will feel less unbearable, and the hard days will get less hard. You need to be patient with yourselves and your Mum, understand everybody’s suffering and dealing with things the best they can, and give it time, uh? And anything you need, you’ve got each other, Mum… and if they’re not okay enough to help you, you always have the rest of your family. Or me. You can call me anytime too, and we’ll play videogames or go for a walk or whatever you want to do, okay? You’re not doing this all alone.”

B oth brothers nodded sadly, and Jack patted the side of his bed.

“Come here, Adam. I want to hug you, okay?” Adam nodded and rushed over to carefully hold his brother. Jack’s eyes filled with tears, and he hugged him with his one available arm. “We’ve got to be good now, uh? No more annoying Mum with fights. We have to be a team, better than the football ones.” Adam nodded and Jack turned to Strike. “Uncle Corm, can we see Mum now?”

S trike released a long breath and nodded.

“Grandpa Rick is on the way, so let’s wait for him and when he’s here I’ll try to bribe some nurse to let us put you in a wheelchair to see her. She’ll like that,” he looked over at Wyatt and gave him a nod as a thank you, which he corresponded. He didn’t think he would’ve been able to have that conversation.

W hen Rick came, with the biggest air of sadness and his wife, his grandsons were the most excited to see him and hug him, and then after much convincing Nick and Strike got Jack’s doctor to approve getting him on a wheelchair and so Strike carefully pushed him across the hospital, so they could all go see Lucy. As mother and sons reunited, a sea of tears following, the group decided to give them some privacy for a while, until they rejoined them, to see both kids had climbed on their Mum’s bed and the three hug each other best they could, comforting each other.

“That’s Uncle Corm and Aunt Robin’s friend,” Adam pointed at Wyatt. “He made us feel better.”

“Did he?” Lucy smiled at Wyatt, tearful yet grateful. They’d met at the party and talked for a long while, and Lucy had liked him and figured if Robin wasn’t interested in Strike, Wyatt wasn’t a bad second option. “Thank you so much, Wyatt.”

“No problem, anything I can do just ask, Lucy,” said Wyatt with a small smile.

“Have they given you any food, sweetheart?” asked Rick, caressing his daughter’s cheek. Next to each other, their resemblance was uncanny. It was extraordinary how Strike and Lucy had both managed to resemble their fathers so much and their mother so little, if anything.

“Yeah, I had an apple, wasn’t hungry,” Lucy assured, looking exhausted. “You guys don’t all need to be here, we’re holding up.”

“Fuck’s sakes Nancarrows,” Ilsa muttered under her breath, and Strike and Robin, who both heard her, tried not to smile. Then Ilsa walked ahead. “Lucy, don’t be silly, we’re your friends and family, what the heck should we do if not be here? Let us take care of you, will you?”

Lucy smiled sadly and nodded.

“There aren’t many people to call, really,” Lucy shrugged. “Greg became an orphan years ago, and he’s got nobody, not really. He has some cousins we sometimes spend Christmas with, but they can wait… and Ted, I suppose…”

“I called him,” Strike nodded. “He’s driving here.”

“At his age?” Lucy got alarmed.

“Lucy, he’s in his sixties, he’s still got a lot to drive,” Strike soothed her. “And Jack has to stay the night but Adam’s good to go, so I can take him home, stay with him.”

“I’ll stay too,” Robin hurried to say.

“Then I’ll stay the night with Jack,” said Rick, determined. “He’s got an extra bed in his room. And Cormoran and I will organize to call to your job, Greg’s, and to school, so they know not to expect you guys for a week at least, uh?”

“Thank you,” Lucy seemed painfully surprised. “I guess the car’s totalled?”

“My friend Eric’s in the police, he’s figuring everything out,” said Strike. “But for what Adam and Jack account, yes.”

“Oh dear… well, mine’s home,” Lucy sighed. “It’ll be useful… and there’s food in the fridge, you shouldn’t need to buy anything, and the guest room’s always ready—,”

“Lucy, relax, we’ve got this,” said Robin reassuringly. “Is there anything else you need? Something from home?”

“Thanks, no…” Lucy had one arm around each son, keeping them close. “Well… Greg had a life insurance with work, so I guess… I don’t know how that works.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Ilsa said, since legal paperwork was her arena. A phone rung and Strike excused himself.

“That’s Eric, one second, sorry…” Strike quickly pressed the phone against his ear. “Eric, what’ve you got?” he listened for a few minutes. “Right, okay. They’re holding up, listen I’ll call you later okay? Thank you… Lucy,” he looked back at his sister, “car’s totalled indeed, but the police have already called your car insurance so they’ll contact me for you. And Jack remembered the car that hit you, so I texted him earlier and Eric says the car’s been found abandoned in Battersea, whoever drove it is on the run, but it belongs to a high society model who reported it stolen this morning. They’ll keep investigating.”

Lucy puffed, tired.

“Well, that’ll be a worry for another day. I’m too tired today to care, not gona bring my husband and son back from the dead, right?”

“Mummy, I wanna stay with you tonight,” Adam said suddenly. “Please, can I?”

“I’d love to honey but the hospital have rules and you’ve got to go home,” Lucy kissed his forehead. “I’ll be back tomorrow, OK? The doctor told me so. Just one night, Uncle Corm and Aunt Robin will stay with you, is just one quick night and tomorrow I’m there. We’ll come hang with Jack, and when he’s better, we’ll take him home too.”

“Okay…”

“Actually, is…” Strike checked his watch. “It’s gotten pretty late already, I should take Adam home.”

“Not yet,” Adam pleaded.

“The sooner you go to bed, the earlier you wake up and can come back, uh?” Lucy smiled at her youngest, kissing his cheek. “Be a good boy for your uncle, uh? You tell him where everything is in the house, for me.”

“Fine,” Adam nodded, and kissed her, then Jack, before stepping off the bed.

“Bring cards tomorrow and we can play, Adam,” Jack suggested.

“We’ll do. See you tomorrow,” Strike kissed Lucy’s forehead and ruffled Jack’s hair. “Sleep well.”

“Thanks, Stick.”

It was odd, Strike thought, to use Lucy’s handful of keys and enter her house when she wasn’t there, when it was quiet and dark, and when, even though it usually housed up to five people, there was no one there. They walked past the magnolia tree at the entry, and while Robin offered to make some dinner, Strike walked with Adam upstairs, where the bedrooms were, to help him choose a pyjama and get into the bathroom, recovering his jumper in the process as his nephew readied for a hot bath.

“Give me a shout if you need anything, I’m leaving the door cracked open,” said Strike as soon as Adam was comfy in his bath. “And wash your hair carefully, just in case there’s still any glass, uh?”

On a day like that, Strike hated Lucy’s predilection for keeping mementos everywhere. The many photographs that filled the house were already haunting for him, that hadn’t been close to the two dead faces most prevalent in them, and he wondered how it would be for Adam, Jack and Lucy herself, once they realized they were surrounded. Would it be comforting? Or should he take them down for them? Telling himself it wasn’t his decision to make, Strike descended down the stairs and followed the smell of meat, which opened his appetite a little.

He had never felt more grateful of seeing Robin, who on a day like that, was like coming home away from home. Just like her soft voice and driving skills had calmed Adam in the Land Rover ‘this thing is a tank, if anybody crashes, they’ll hurt themselves more than us’, now her presence calmed him too, and he announced his arrival walking heavy before wordlessly wrapping his arms around her from behind and nuzzling into her neck, releasing a deep breath. In response, Robin lifted a hand to caress his cheek.

“I was thinking,” she murmured, “with Lucy’s broken knee we should stay for a while, she needs help to move between two floors, and we need to keep an eye on Jack for a few days even when he’s discharged, because brain injury’s very delicate. So I figured, once we have dinner I could go and pack us a bag. If I go without you guys, Adam doesn’t have to spend more time in a car than it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Good,” Strike nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Shit, and Ted’s on his way, there’s only one guest room, I didn’t realize…”

“He can stay in Jack’s room for now, right?” Robin figured. None dared to mention Luke’s permanently occupied room, because the rooms of the dead were to be left vacant, until the people who loved them most were ready to have them be reoccupied by someone else.

“Good, yes,” Strike nodded. “You’re right, I just realized all the boys have trundle beds, for when their friends come over, Ted’s slept in those before when we’ve all been here for Christmas and the house was packed, they’re long enough… or we’ll go home and leave him the guest room but I don’t know…”

“Don’t stress, we’ll talk with him,” Robin said softly. “How are you holding up?”

“I don’t know. I’m so scared for them, Robin… I don’t think Lucy can deal with his, I know she’s tougher than she looks, and a big girl and all of that but… how does anybody recover from losing their son? And their husband all at once…” he shook his head. “And Jack and Adam, how…? I mean you saw Jack, he’s already trying to be a thirty year old soldier, that’s not right.”

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” said Robin, squeezing his hand. “They’re family, we’ll do what it takes.”

Ted arrived home while Robin was gone getting their things. He looked shocked, tired and immensely saddened mixed with worried, and held Adam tight for a long while until Adam fell asleep and they tucked him in bed. Strike warmed up dinner leftovers for his older uncle, discussed sleeping arrangements, and weekly arrangements. The next day was Sunday and Lucy would come home, but she needed constant help with her mobility issues, so Strike, Robin and Ted would stay all day, and accompany her to visit Jack, but once the three were home, Strike and Robin were going to have work. It was fine, Strike would take a week off, Robin could manage without him. Or they’d take morning and afternoon shifts and alternate. And Ted could stay a week, surely, or more even. They’d stick around at least until Lucy could move on her own, for sure.

The thoughts and worries hadn’t left Strike by the time Robin held him in bed, trying to lure him to sleep, and it took him an extra mile to reach dreamland, only to be surrounded by uncomfortable dreams all night. When he woke up, he was first confused by being in Lucy’s house, and once he remembered why, he was confused by Robin’s absence, being so early in the morning.

“Robin?” he whispered into the room, absurdly, because the sun had come up enough to see she wasn’t there. Putting his dressing gown over his pyjama, and his prosthesis on, Strike walked out of the room, and found Ted in his dressing gown, peeking into Adam’s room.

“Morning,” Ted whispered. “Look at this.”

Confused, Strike went over and he immediately smiled. In the small twin bed, Robin had evidently slid at some point during the night, and her arms were wrapped around Adam, who nuzzled into her chest. She had always had a special touch with children, but seeing how she stepped up for her recently acquired role of the boys’ only real aunt, and even though she hardly knew Adam, she was willing of going the extra mile for his comfort, now both sleeping peacefully, warmed his heart and said all he needed to know about Robin.

“Adam must’ve cried and we didn’t realize,” Strike murmured. “Robin has two younger brothers, bet it’s not the first time she’s comforted a little boy.”

“She’s one of a kind,” whispered Ted. “You picked a good one. I sent Lucy a photo, so she cheers up when she wakes up.”

“Good,” Strike nodded. Charlotte would never do this. He walked inside to make sure they were tucked in properly and kissed Robin’s temple. “Thank you.” Whispered Strike, before leaving them to sleep in peace.

  
  



	12. Wrecking ball

** Chapter 12:  Wrecking ball. **

To say they slept in the guest room was, in Strike’s opinion, a long stretch. The reality of the situation was that during the first week at Lucy’s house, he and Robin often found themselves constantly vacating their bed, in favour of rushing over to Lucy’s bed, Jack’s bed, or Adam’s bed, whenever any woke up screaming, crying, or just couldn’t fall asleep at all. Even on the days Robin was gone for work and wouldn’t return until late, it wasn’t odd for Strike to wake up the next morning and find his girlfriend spooning his sister in the marital bed. And when Strike commented how remarkable Robin was being, the younger woman would show sincere surprise that her actions weren’t considered the absolute normal because, ‘how else would I be?’. In her mind, she was caring for her nephews and her in a way, sister, because in her head, she wasn’t leaving Strike anytime soon, and his family was hers by default.  And Lucy and the boys seemed to embrace it, growing closer with her to the point that Strike, Lucy and Ted would alternatively find Robin taking a nap after a long day of work, falling asleep sitting on the sofa with one boy asleep against each shoulder.

I t took three days from the car crash until they were given Greg and Luke’s bodies, which Strike identified himself, and were given permission to bury them. Then it’d began the process to figure out how to bury them, and Strike and Robin, per Lucy’s wishes, went to speak to Reverend Alan Keeler, who was the Vicar of the Parish Church of St Mary, the Anglican church the family went to on Sundays, usually, because Greg had been a fierce Anglican and Lucy, who cared about religion about as much as Strike but had gotten used to the Anglican Church living with Ted and Joan, had embraced her beloved’s beliefs and costumes.  And because Lucy and Greg, who were the kind of people to plan for everything, had testaments up to date and family insurance, they had no worries about how to pay for two funerals, because everything was well thought of in advance.

“There’ll be a joint liturgy,” Strike was laying out the plans four days after Greg and Luke’s death, as they all sat around the dining table after dinner, papers laid out of the wooden surface. “And we’ll put them in Bromley Hill Cemetery, with Greg’s parents, both in one same hole so they’re together, that all right?”

“Perfect, thanks, Stick,” Lucy nodded, everything done as she had wished.

Just like right before Joan’s death Strike had felt Lucy was an entirely different person, determined, who did what needed to get done in soldier mode, this Lucy was entirely different from any he’d known, but so were Adam and Jack. In the depths of his mind, Strike worried they’d never be anything like they used to be, and then he knew they really wouldn’t be. Because Lucy didn’t spend time crying her eyes out or lying in bed in mourning, she woke up, put on her armour, and went to her leg’s rehabilitation, to the family therapist she and the boys were going to, returned, kept herself busy, played a little with the boys, whatever the day had in store. Sometimes she worked, too, from home, because she was a book illustrator and she had genuine fun sitting for hours designing illustrations whose quality didn’t descend just because she was sad. And Adam wasn’t a whiny prick, but followed Strike or Ted around to help fix things around the house or arrange stuff, and Jack, who suffered frequent headaches and had to lie down a lot, recovering from a severe concussion, tried to recover the talent for art inherited from Lucy, or asked Robin to read to him, and mainly enjoyed just lying low seeing others work.

O n Tuesday, the school called and they were reminded they hadn’t informed the school about the circumstances, so Strike did so on the phone, and on the Thursday before the funeral, he went with Ilsa, who by then was six months pregnant, to pick up Luke’s things and get homework and chores for Adam and Jack to not be left behind too much with their studies.

“What a tragedy,” Luke’s teacher said with sadness written all over her face and glassy eyes, handing over a box with the stuff Luke had done for class, the change of clothes he kept in the school, and his very few belongings left, standing by the Headmistress. “He was a bright boy, really athletic and a great classmate. Will you tell Lucy that?”

“Yes, thank you,” Strike grabbed the box and took a deep breath. “She’d come herself, but has a broken leg,” he wanted that to be clear. Lucy wasn’t staying back, weak and hiding from the world, because of lack of strength. Lucy was showing the strength he imagined Leda had shown to be a single mother, or Joan in her final days, or Ted and himself normally, and if she wasn’t showing her face wasn’t out of weakness, but because her leg needed its rest, and cars weren’t comfortable.

“Poor thing,” the headmistress sighed deeply, as they stood at the door of Luke’s classroom, after school hours, when everything was quiet. They began to walk together to the headmistress’ office, past long corridors, where the teaching staff had left some light homework and tasks for Jack and Adam, along with calendars with what they were supposed to be learning over the next few weeks, in case they needed another week or two at home. “The teachers and Jack and Adam’s friends wrote them some letters too, made them some drawings,” the headmistress pointed to the homework boxes, filled with more than just homework, “we were wondering if… well, many of us would like to pay our respects, show up for the funeral.” She looked unsure at the uncle she’d never previously met, and his lawyer friend.

“Sure uh… it’s tomorrow, four thirty,” said Strike. “We’ll do a liturgy at St Mary’s Church and bury them at Bromley Hill, I’m sure Lucy would like to see you there.”

“We’ll make sure to tell the parents today, and finish school a little earlier tomorrow so anybody who wants to go can go,” said the headmistress. “And if there’s anything we can do for the family…”

“You’ve been kind enough,” Strike nodded. Lucy’s own high school in St Mawes hadn’t been half as easy when she’d have to be a bit absent on her final day, when Leda died. “I’m not sure how much homework Jack will be able to do, though, or when he’ll be back. He has a severe concussion, tons of headaches all the time, can’t really concentrate on tasks without them. Adam’s good, but Jack will need more time.”

“Sure, all the time he needs,” the headmistress agreed, nodding. “We also have a phone number available, if they struggle understanding tasks they can call me and I’ll try to help.”

“Well that went good,” said Ilsa as the two left the school at last, carrying boxes into the night. “Nicest school in the world, am I right?”

“Yes, I’m surprised,” Strike lifted the door of the boot, and put the boxes inside, taking another from Ilsa and shoving it with the others in his BMW. As they got into the car, Strike sighed and turned to look at his old friend. For nearly a week now, Ilsa had been juggling all the legal affairs and paperwork that came with losing one person, let alone two, and Nick had looked after the injured, changing dressings, sometimes even carrying Lucy around because Strike could only manage short distances with Lucy’s weight. “Listen, Ilsa… I don’t know how to… you and Nick have been amazing, once more. Thank you, really.”

I lsa looked confused, and shrugged.

“Corm, you do know she’s not just our friend’s sister, right?”

“Isn’t she?”

“Well, no, of course not,” Ilsa snorted. “You stayed in London, but Lucy came to St Mawes, she’s my friend directly, she’s like a sister, we’d hang out all the time back then.”

“Did you? How come I never…?”

“Did you ask?” Strike had to admit he hadn’t. “I know it’s hard for you to think anybody would willingly befriend Lucy and Greg, but Nick and I did or else, we wouldn’t have invited them to our wedding. Greg had his moments of annoyance and Lucy can be annoying too but…” she shrugged. “They were there for us, and we want to be there for them. Besides, you forget we know what it is like to lose a child. Not in the same way but… if it hurt for us like it did when it was just a foetus, we can’t imagine what it is for Lucy, after nearly fourteen years of knowing and loving Luke. If we could do more, we would, in a heartbeat.”

Strike gulped, still not igniting the engine. He hadn’t realized Ilsa and Lucy now had child loss in common, and he felt stupid for that.

“You guys didn’t spend Valentine’s Day doing something romantic, did you?” Strike asked then. It had been on Valentine’s Day the year before that Ilsa had miscarried, the first time she had finally managed to get pregnant, after three rounds of IVF.

“No,” Ilsa admitted. “I spent most of the day crying and Nick decided to take me on an impromptu weekend trip to Cornwall, just to get away and relax, without telling anyone. We rented a cottage by the beach, and focused on our own healing.”

Strike’s dark green eyes drifted to his friend and he reached out a hand over the gearstick and squeezed Ilsa’s.

“What a fucking year, uh?”

Ilsa snorted a dry laugh, nodding.

“It’s going to get better now, though,” said Ilsa optimistically. “Our baby girl is coming, Lucy and the boys will slowly heal, you and Robin are doing great… next Christmas won’t be perfect, but perhaps we should all spend it together, uh? For once. Nick and I were going to go solo, being the baby’s first Christmas, but… should be all of us together, perhaps.”

“Oh dear, these are the type of things I’m supposed to be discussing with Robin now, right?” Strike realized in horror. “I’ve signed up for the annual my family or yours?” Ilsa sniggered, nodding.

“Welcome to the club,” she said. Then, as Strike began driving, she added. “You guys are awfully serious already, isn’t it?”

Strike sighed, then nodded.

“I’ll tell you this in confidence, all right? Between you and me,” said Strike. “If I don’t end married to Robin, then I’m never, ever getting married,” he added dead serious, and Ilsa watched him, shocked. “She’s everything I could possibly ever want. She loves me for real, she doesn’t play mind games, she never lies unless it’s to surprise me with a good thing or to do something very good I might not approve, which I can live with, her family treats me proper, we share same passions, same beloved job, she’s the business partner I never even knew I needed, and she’s the woman who’ll fake illness to try to spend more time in a hospital just to not leave me alone, who’ll cuddle Lucy, or the boys, just to make them feel better, who drops everything when something comes up without waiting to be told, who doesn’t throw guilt trips and blames… she’s _the woman_. And if she changes her mind and doesn’t want to grow old with me, then I don’t want to grow old with anybody else.”

Ilsa stared at him somewhat shocked and deeply surprised, and then grinned.

“That’s how it’s done, mate.”

M eanwhile, in the other corner of London, Robin was retuning to Earl’s Court after a long day of work, for a hot shower in her own bathroom before returning to Lucy’s house, undoubtedly so crowded these days that she might not even have a shower available. The day had been rough, doing surveillance as far gone as Oxfordshire, and she was dreaming with the scents of her shampoo and the warmth of the water, which she’d only recently been able to enjoy again after the fire, now that she had the entire flat for herself, because Max had taken Wolfgang to filming in North England for a while, her parents inviting him for lunch one day even. Robin figured, as she pulled out the keys from her pocket, that she might even masturbate in the shower, because she missed Strike’s body so much she couldn’t even deal with it. They’d gone from sexing like rabbits on a daily basis to nothing, because even when Strike was in the mood and got spontaneous hard-ons in the mornings, neither felt really comfortable in a house full of people, when any of their nephews could burst in at any given moment, or worse, Ted,  although he at least knocked.

A s Robin reached her apartment door, something seemed odd, though. She could’ve sworn both locks, the one in the top of the door and the one at waist’s height, should be locked with a key, because Max would never just leave the flat unlocked properly. However, she could see the upper lock wasn’t locked, because otherwise Robin would be able to see the latch between the door and the frame, in the very small crack.  Had Max returned sooner for some reason?

Just in case, Robin opened the door carefully, turning the lights on,  and left it cracked open.

“Max? Are you home?” she asked into the flat, but she didn’t hear him, or Wolfgang. Putting her coat in the rack, she suddenly smelled a perfume that she knew and wasn’t hers, Max’s, or even Max’s boyfriend George’s. She had smelled it only once before, when she had nearly crashed with Charlotte Campbell five years previously. Turning around, she stood, quiet. The two-storey flat was dark save for the hall and stairs, which she had turned on, and now she tried to see if there was anything out of order. It took her a moment, but then Robin realized her bedroom door was strangely closed.

Robin never closed her door, and Max never touched her things. She had closed it diligently over the first few months at Max’s, before she’d gotten used to him, befriended him, and gotten to know him, but then she’d resolved to leave her bedroom open whenever she left, at least cracked open, so that Wolfgang could wander around as he pleased, and so it’d ventilate. If Max had closed it, it’d be a first.

Slowly, Robin pulled her phone to text Strike, Vanessa and Eric ‘SOS THINK SOME1 BROKE IN MY FLAT’ then left her phone recording sound on the auxiliary table by the entry door,  hidden behind the keys bowl,  grabbed an umbrella from the stand, and walked up the stairs. She was experienced enough to know often, when someone entered your house illegally, they would trick anybody who came back too soon into going into a certain room, to catch them from behind. So instead of walking straight into bait, Robin checked the upper floor first, but it was empty, and nothing seemed moved, although she still grabbed a kitchen knife. Then she walked to Max’s room, empty and organized, and the bathroom, equally empty. She left her room for last, and put the knife in her right hand behind her back while holding the umbrella up in her left hand, in front. She opened the door and kicked it open, turning the light at once. And to her shock and surprise, Charlotte stood in front of her, pointing a gun at her.

“Hands up where I can see them.”

  
  



	13. Blazing force

**Chapter 13: Blazing force.**

Robin left the knife in her back pocket, hidden beneath her jumper, thankful she’d picked a small but sharp one, because malleability over size, like with penises, and dropped the umbrella, both hands up in the air.

“What are you doing here, Charlotte?” asked Robin, loud enough to make sure her phone would hear, under Charlotte’s cold, transfixed gaze. She was still tall, slender and fit, with her dark hair long and wavy, as she remembered her, but no longer pregnant and her eyes were filled with a hatred she hadn’t noticed before.

Charlotte side smirked, smug and  arrogantly looking at her. Robin kept her calmness. She’d been here before, she had a phone recording everything that was happening, she knew three people were coming this time around, she wasn’t isolated somewhere where nobody would hear her and she was far better, she could bet, than Charlotte at 1v1. She only had to keep her talking long enough to give either Strike, Eric Wardle or Vanessa Ekwensi time to arrive.

“The great Robin Ellacott didn’t figure it all out,” said Charlotte with amusement.

“I’ve been a little busy, what did I exactly have to figure out?”

“Who was so wickedly smart to set the IEDs in your building? Who could have access to a Lexus? Who knew Bluey’s life and habits so well, and her family’s, to know exactly when to strike, and how? All under your nose, and you didn’t find out, Bluey didn’t find out, the police doesn’t even suspect. And when I set this apartment on flames, and your body burns to ashes, nobody will know who did this either.”

T he revelation fell on Robin like a bucket of cold water and ice. Of course. Charlotte knew well Strike’s working hours, and it wouldn’t have been difficult for her to find someone who’d make an IED and pay to have it all done very secretly, in black money, then either she or whoever she paid would carefully manipulate the locks to put the IEDs inside. She might even know how to manipulate locks from Strike, just like Robin did. Charlotte would’ve also known about the boys’ football on the weekends, and she rubbed shoulders with all the high society, no problem to get a Lexus. 

“You put the IEDs in the office?” Robin made sure to make her tone sound very incredulous, yet realistic. “Yeah, sure,” she puffed, and Charlotte’s smile faltered. She didn’t like not being taken seriously. “Look I don’t know how you know about the IEDs, but you’re just some socialité, if you expect me to believe you’d outsmart—,”

“Of course I did!” Charlotte growled.

“Oh yeah? How even? You don’t know anything about bombs.” And I’m going to get a full confession in my phone, you bitch.

“I…” Charlotte frowned, and Robin chuckled.

“See? You don’t know.”

“I do!” the hand with the gun shook angrily. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, when I’m pointing at you with a gun! I paid someone to make the IEDs, I paid someone to spy the agency and tell me when it was empty, and on a Sunday, I went in, manipulated the locks, hid one IED under the sofa in your office and the other in the other guy’s office, under a bookshelf. I had the remote, so I waited until I knew you’d be there—,”

“Yeah? And why not do it on a Monday morning? Building full of people, more victims.”

“D’you think I’m stupid?” Robin bit her lip, her real thoughts shouldn’t come up in this. “The bigger the massacre, the more efforts the police put, anybody with two neurons would know, you stupid bitch…”

“Then why kill us?” Robin inquired. “What do you win?”

“What do I win?” Charlotte sniggered, coming closer to Robin, who stepped backwards until her back hit Max’s door and Charlotte’s back was towards Robin’s phone, outside in the hall. Charlotte laughed maniacally, and it struck Robin for the first time that perhaps she had really, completely, lost her royal mind. “Well sweetie why do people kill? I like the drama, the revenge… Bluey dared to change his number, pass from me.. for you! What do _you_ have that I don’t?! You’re just some stupid countryside girl.”

“I’m beautiful,” Robin argued, to keep her talking.

“You? Beautiful?” Charlotte snorted a laugh. “As much as a rat, I suppose.”

“Well your plan didn’t work out. We lived, you didn’t manage to kill us with the explosions in Denmark Street.”

“I didn’t, but it’s okay, I won’t fail now. I’ll kill you now, then I’ll kill Jack Ward, just run him over when he exits school, hopefully catch his annoying little brother too, and then Bluey will kill himself.”

“What have you got against Cormoran’s nephew?” Robin frowned, sincerely horrified.

“Nothing, really,” Charlotte shrugged. “I suppose Jack is the least annoying of the three… but you see, nobody, ever, leaves Charlotte Campbell. I always win. And Corm, he dared to play me, to fuck me then leave me like I’m some cheap whore, to pass from me for you… this is revenge, dear. You, Jack, his stupid father and his stupid brothers, and hopefully his mother too… collateral damage. It’s what it takes to cause Corm the worst imaginable pain.”

“Is that why you collided that white Lexus against the Highlands’ car?”

“At last, you realized!” Charlotte cheered loudly. “Yeah… I hoped it’d blow up, you know? But these cars don’t blow up, it seems, and I crashed it hard. When I heard only Greg and Luke were dead, I was so disappointed but… it’s okay, I’ll fix it. Now, prepare to say goodbye, Robin Ellacott.”

Over Charlotte’s shoulder, Robin saw Vanessa’s eyes, her gun aiming at Charlotte. She had peeked into the flat, as Robin had left the door ajar, and pushed it a bit more open quietly. Now, Vanessa gestured for her to move, so that if Charlotte shoot, or Vanessa shoot, it wouldn’t hit Robin.

“I just want to say one thing,” said Robin, thinking quickly and slowly stepping aside a little. “Don’t…” she moved a little. “Underestimate a detective.”

And she dropped to the floor hard, just as two shots echoed in the building.

When Robin opened her eyes, she found herself on the floor, and rolling over, she saw Charlotte screaming in agony, her hand covered in blood and her gun on the floor, while Vanessa wrapped her bleeding hand with her jacket, a cop handcuffing Charlotte’s other hand to her own belt in the back. Vanessa turned to Robin over Charlotte’s screams, as Robin took a deep breath, sitting up.

“Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“Miss, you’re bleeding,” said a cop, kneeling in front of her. Robin looked and saw her shoulder was, indeed, bloodstained, but as the cop mover her t-shirt to check, she breathed in relief seeing Charlotte’s bullet had only grazed her shoulder.

“I’ve got a full confession,” said Robin, and pointed to the auxiliary table. “My phone was recording the entire time.” Vanessa laughed.

“That’s my girl!”

H ours later and fuming, Robin arrived to Bromley. She had testified for the police, gotten her shoulder stitched up and bandaged, changed clothes, waited until someone could change the locks for a more high security ones at Max’s out of her own pocket, called him to tell him everything, waited until the police collected the bullets and cleared the flat, cleaned the blood stains Charlotte had left, and checked her phone to see that Strike, for some reason, hadn’t even checked his phone. She was hoping there had been an emergency, because otherwise she was going to kill him. Vanessa had seen her text right as she was getting in her car to return home from work, and Eric had seen it from his house, both calling patrols over in case they wouldn’t be fast enough, knowing that since someone had been trying to kill her and Strike, chances were there was someone in her flat and it wasn’t good.

Robin entered her house using her own copy of the keys, her rage reaching high levels now that in so many hours, she’d gotten no contact from Strike and she could smell dinner, which wasn’t usually a messenger of bad news.

“CORMORAN,” Robin bellowed, putting her coat on the rack, not caring who heard. The boys would be in bed already anyway. “BLUE STRIKE, WHERE ARE YOU FUCKER?!”

Her language and tone were apparently surprising, because when she entered the dining room, Strike looked up at her from his seat, pale in fear, and Lucy, Nick, Ilsa, Ted  and Wyatt, who had been around a lot to use his expertise to help the family,  turned to her, surprised with her flaring nostrils and her evident rage.

“Before you kill me, can I know why?” Strike stood up and lifted his hands in peace offering.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR PHONE AND WHY AREN’T YOU CHECKING—!” she interrupted herself to cough, because three months after the fire, her lungs still screamed sometimes.

“My phone?” Strike frowned, and pulled his phone out. “I’ve got no missing calls, no— oh… I turned off the notifications while I was at the school, must’ve forgotten to… SOS think someone broke in my flat,” he read, and his eyes widened as he looked up at Robin with sudden urgency, and she released an angry growl, tensing her hands in the air as if containing herself from punching him. “Oh my God Robin, are you okay? What happened?”

“Well I’m alive, no thanks to you, surely,” Robin snapped. “I got shot. That’s what happened.”

“You what?!”

“Somebody shot you at the flat?!” Lucy looked up from her wheelchair, alarmed.

“Four hours ago! Which your brother would know if he remembered that at least when someone’s tried to kill us and we haven’t caught them yet, he ought to keep his phone notifications up at all times!” she shouted towards Strike, who looked petrified, seeing her so furious. “Luckily it was just a shoulder graze and I’m fine, because Vanessa does check her messages, and Eric.”

R eleasing a relieved breathe, Strike shoved his phone back in his pocket.

“All right, I’m so, so sorry Robin, I’m a jerk, I fucked up, but please just tell me what happened, who tried to kill you, is Max okay?”

“Max and Wolfgang are, luckily, filming in Manchester,” Robin took a deep breath and grabbed a plate, filling herself angrily from a casserole in the table before sitting in the one free seat between Nick and Wyatt, Strike also sitting down, knowing he wasn’t off the hook. “I went home looking forward for a quick shower before coming back, after a hell work day, and you know what I found? I’ll tell you, because it’s funny as hell. Charlotte Campbell, in my room, pointing at me with a gun.”

“What?!” Strike paled further. “She what?!”

“Luckily, I’m fucking great at my job and I knew something was up the second I arrived, so I texted for help way ahead of time, left my room for last because my room was closed, and it shouldn’t be, so I thought someone might be inside. The entry door was also not properly locked, which first made me suspect,” she stuffed a spoonful of casserole in her mouth, because she was furious, but also starved. “Anyway, Charlotte was there, patiently waiting, so I kept her talking until Vanessa arrived with the cavalry, she had to shoot at Charlotte’s hand so she’s having surgery as we speak, and I avoided a bullet in my skull by the skin of my teeth, but I got a full confession. The IEDs, the fire, even…” she eyed Lucy and sighed, calming down in respect to her host. “Greg and Luke. It was all Charlotte. She confessed to everything.”

As she said so, suddenly it didn’t seem polite to continue eating, as an atmosphere of tension fell over the table. Strike got up, left the room, and judging by the entry door’s sound, the house. Robin slowly looked up from her plate and saw  five shocked pairs of eyes on her, and she was acutely aware that it was the night before Luke and Greg’s funeral and Lucy was looking at her like she couldn’t decipher.

“I’m so, so very sorry, Lucy…” said Robin. Lucy took a deep breath and reached across the table to take her hand.

“No, thank you. You say you caught the bitch? You got the evidence?” Robin nodded.

“She’s under arrest at the hospital, and she could lose her right hand. She bragged about everything she had done while I encouraged her to keep talking, and my phone recorded everything clearly, and by now, the police have already been able to tie her with everything, they registered her house, her car… there was evidence. And she didn’t realize her phone was tracking her GPS coordinates, so she has been placed everywhere incriminating in the map, the days everything happened, from the fire to… the crash. The police have confirmed she did it all alone, paid someone to do a couple things, but they’ve arrested that person already and wasn’t aware of why Charlotte was doing shit, they didn’t have a close relationship, still, everyone’s under arrest.”

“Bitch,” Lucy muttered, and a tear feel down her cheek. “Did she tell you why, or was it just because she’s insane?”

“I do believe she’s insane, but she said that it’s all vengeance on Cormoran, she wanted to hurt him, so she destroyed her properties, everything she knew he loved. She was jealous of me for some reason, perhaps she thought we were together, told me she wanted me dead and then told the police she hadn’t known Strike would be at the office, because for several weeks on Fridays he left to work outside, which is true, this was the first Friday he hadn’t, that case had just been closed,” said Robin. “But she knew I always stay late, so she had hoped to kill me, destroy his stuff… then it was always the plan to go after you. She figured if you and Jack died because of him, the guilt would drive him into suicide. She said it was vengeance because he left her, he discarded her.”

“Oh God…” Nick stared horrified. “Somebody needs to go check—,”

“I’m on it,” Robin got up. “I can tear him a new one another day, don’t worry.”

“Robin please… take care of him,” Lucy looked tearfully at him. “Tell him I don’t blame him. He didn’t know where he was getting into when he fell for her, and love is blind, I know he tried to get rid off her when he realized how poisonous she was… it’s not his fault. She’s sick in the head.”

“Will do.”

Robin grabbed her coat and exited the house into the night. Strike’s BMW was still in the driveway, so she figured he couldn’t be far, and having in count he always rushed towards the nearest pub and she shouldn’t underestimate his knowledge of the area, she walked towards the main avenue, her steps quick, and passed by a children’s park. It was then that Robin stopped in her tracks and turned around with a sudden idea, walking back to the park she’d only just passed. Squinting her eyes she saw, in the dark, a large figure sitting in the swings. Taking a deep breath, she walked towards it.

“Cormoran?” she inquired into the air.

“Can you wait a couple days to rip my head off?” Strike asked, hoarsely, his voice thick with tears and sadness. Robin walked in front of him, and when he looked up, the street lamps showed he was crying.

“That’d be giving Charlotte what she wants,” said Robin, and knelt on the ground, putting her hands on his knees. “I love you, you made a mistake, and I forgive you. And your sister doesn’t blame you, because she told me herself, and we don’t think you should blame yourself either. Not for dating Charlotte, not for loving her, not for letting her into your knowledge, your life, your family, and not for not answering the phone.”

“That’s easy to say, you don’t have to tell the only nephew who adores you that his father is dead because you, the detective, the ex SIB, didn’t realize you were dating a psychopath,” Strike sighed painfully, tears rolling down his big cheeks.

“It’s not easy to say,” Robin argued, and sat on the other swing, looking up at the stars, so much cleared here in Bromley than in central London. “I, a detective, didn’t realize I was dating a manipulative cheater. Didn’t realize I was befriending a murderer in Raphael Chiswell either. And when you met Charlotte, you weren’t a detective, or a SIB. You were just a young boy falling in love for the first time, blinded by it, and then there was so much pain in your life that… you held onto the one thing that felt safe, and I can understand that, so can Jack. You can give that bitch what she wants, and let what she’s done put you through more pain… or you can turn this into a lesson. Tell Jack and Adam that Charlotte did all of this not because of you, not because of them, but because she’s a psychopath, and psychopaths are such experts in tricking people, in manipulation, that not even an expert would necessarily catch them. You tell them you’re sorry you put her into their lives, you teach them to never let someone manipulate them like that, and if they’re angry at you for a while, you give them time, because they’re children, but you make sure to keep showing up, and to help them understand it wasn’t your fault, because it wasn’t. The truth is way more complex than that.”

S trike nodded slowly, and turned to her, full of sadness.

“You think they’ll be angry for long?”

“No,” Robin smiled softly. “We’re going to tell them you and I caught her together.”

“But that’s not true.”

“So? What’s mine is yours which means my victories are yours too, and it’s a little lie that won’t hurt anybody, but that will keep them remembering when something bad happens, their uncle will always show up and save the day. Besides, the only reason you didn’t catch her was because you were saving their arses with school.”

She caressed his cheek lovingly.

“I’m really sorry I didn’t see your message, and didn’t think to call you,” said Strike after a long moment, visibly calmer.

“You know how you’re going to compensate me?”

“Name your price,” Strike replied with amusement. Robin grinned and stepped up, taking his hands and pulling him to his feet, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“You in only your bathing suit, me, and Athens, in August, for a small little romantic holiday.”

“Athens, uh?” Strike raised his eyebrows and Robin smiled broadly, nodding. “I suppose I can arrange that, yeah.”

“Yeah,” Robin chuckled, seeing him smile as he lowered his lips to her jaw.

“What will be doing in Athens?” he asked into her ear, nibbling her earlobe softly.

“Forget the drama, explore some gorgeous historic places and hopefully… lots of fucking.”

“Mmm… sounds like my kind of holiday,” Strike grinned, kissing her hard on the lips, feeling so much more relieved, comforted, and happy, reminded how lucky he was.


	14. Dream on

**Chapter 14: Dream on.**

Ahead of the early morning’s funeral viewing, Strike and his family had prepared Adam and Jack the best they could, because as much as Lucy had suggested not to have a viewing, Strike and Wyatt had ultimately reasoned with her that viewings could help with the morning process, specially when you weren’t conscious of how the death had happened. The boys and Lucy hadn’t seen Greg and Luke in nearly a week, missed them, and it’d be therapeutic to have a moment alone with them and say their goodbyes properly, and it was also important Adam wouldn’t have a lasting image of his father covered in blood. Strike knew enough about funerals to know the dead often looked pretty good once things were done, for the viewing, and Luke and Greg would be in their finest black suits, would look as if sleep, much less traumatic that whatever Adam might’ve seen in the car.

A nd so the viewing was reserved for immediate close family, Lucy, Adam, Jack, Ted and Strike, the last two mainly there to support the others, and as the men let the others cry and mourn, their hearts shattering a little inside, Strike had to admit Luke would’ve made a handsome man. He knew, and refused to let Lucy know, that his neck had broken, and yet he looked fine, as if he was just sleeping, uncannily similar to his father, who had been a handsome young man once.

Lucy insisted on not being on a wheelchair, but on crutches, for the day. Her entire leg was in a cast below her long black dress, and Strike stayed close to support her physically at any point, but she showed remarkable strength and presence. She crumbled only seeing her husband and firstborn, but then kept a straight face, holding her sons close, and in the church, sitting in the first row, she insisted it was okay for Adam to sit on her good knee, and for Jack to stay between her and Ted, who kept an arm around him.

The Church of St Mary was a grand, beautiful gothic church, not at all like the small St Mary’s Church in Masham where Robin had wed, or the little St Mawes’ Church Strike had known since childhood. Strike sat between Lucy with Adam in her arms, both seemingly cried out and tired already, and Robin, who wore a black dress and had braided her hair back, with a black hairband. Their hands intertwined over his knee, and they kept a serious, stoic face, until before he had to get up to give the eulogy, a punishment he’d put onto himself feeling he had to compensate Lucy and the boys somehow, Robin briefly pecked his cheek in encouragement, ensuring she wouldn’t stain him with lipstick.

S tanding at the altar in front of the two coffins, Strike was astonished by how full and dead quiet the church was, the only noise being the cries now and then from here and there.  Lucy looked up at him like a dog looking at its executioner, and it paralysed Strike for a moment, before he realized she was just afraid he’d fuck up, and he wasn’t planning on it.  Clearing his throat, he opened the paper he had written ten times, and began to read, making a point to look up frequently, as instilled per his Oxford studies.

“Greg Evergeen was, above everything else, a good man,” Strike began, loud and clear. “A lot of you knew him as the quantity surveyor, the faithful Anglican, the good friend, or the friendly neighbour, but to me, he was the man who was always by my little sister’s side, even when I wasn’t. He was the one who always showed up and filled her with the love and affection she deserved, who was faithful and loyal until his last breath, who would’ve made an excellent companion for her whole life, if he’d been given the chance. He was always there when needed, he was always polite, helpful, respectful and friendly, he tried to help everyone the best he knew, and he cared a huge deal about my sister and their children, and just for that, he deserves my eternal appreciation and gratefulness. Greg liked football, and sometimes we bantered because our teams are rivals, but no matter our occasional bantering, Greg always had a birthday present for me, a Christmas dinner invitation, and encouraged his wife and his children to stay close to me even when I didn’t always make it easy, just because he was a good guy and he knew the value of family,” he took a deep breath and dared to look and see if he’d fucked up, but judging by Lucy’s tearful smile and by the surprise and sad glee in Jack and Adam’s eyes, he was doing okay. “He married my sister young, and I was in the military then so I didn’t get to know him in advance. I remember attending the ceremony crossing fingers he was a good guy, because Lucy and I’s mother didn’t have the best talent to pick men and I feared she was just as awful at that, and then the intense relief when I shook hands with him, and I could see in his eyes he didn’t need me to give him the third degree. When I could see he was the man my sister deserved, that his love was sincere, and that he’d give her everything she had always dreamed of. To a big brother, nothing fills your heart quite as much as knowing your little sister will always be loved properly, and won’t give herself to false love, and bad companies, so Greg had my approval right away. And then Luke came, and it was 2011, and I remember receiving a video call wherever I had been deployed, and how happy Lucy and Greg were, and how blonde and handsome Luke was, and the way everything changed from the point I was told I was Uncle Corm from there on,” not quite the truth -he’d be sure he was ugly- but like Robin had said ‘a little lie won’t hurt anybody’. “I’m not going to lie and pretend Luke and I were thick as thieves, because we weren’t, but I wish we had. I wish I hadn’t been so busy far from home and so bad with kids in general through most of his childhood, so I’d gotten to know him properly, to play football with him, to show up for him and get along.”

R obin reached out over the space Strike had emptied on the church bench to take Lucy’s hand and give it a gentle squeeze, and Lucy sniffled and nodded, squeezing back. Strike shifted in his feet and puffed, shaking his head.

“Truth is I’m supposed to stand here and tell you about Luke’s life and what a good boy he was, but he was thirteen. He hadn’t really had a life to talk much about,” said Strike plainly, “and the little life he had, I wasn’t much of a part of and I don’t have much to say about it. His teachers told me he was bright and good classmate and educated, his brothers told me he was funny and protective, his Mum told me he was sweet and kind… but I didn’t know that much of him. So instead, I wanted to tell him something, now I have one last chance. Dear Luke, I’m sorry I didn’t know shit about you,” he added bluntly, and his eyes filled with sincere tears of regret. “I’m sorry if ever I made you feel it was your fault, because I always liked your little brother and paid him way more attention that you, but I promise it wasn’t you. I’ve just always been bad with kids, even when I was a kid, I didn’t make friends… other kids adopted me as a friend. And the shittiest part of things is, I have a great uncle and I should’ve known how to be a proper uncle to you, and I really think you’ve been killed when the best was yet to come. Soon, you would’ve turned fourteen, and in a few months or a year, perhaps you would’ve had your first crush, and I would’ve told you all about how to give a good kiss, how to be a good boyfriend, what to do or not do on your first big teenager parties. I would’ve bought you your first beer,” his voice quivered for a moment. “And I’m sure as you grew older, that’s when we would’ve bonded, because I was always good with young men. You would’ve gotten drunk for the first time, gone on your first big travels, decided what to study and work at, had some of the teenage fun I had. And when you turned eighteen, your mother would’ve organized you the biggest party, and you know what, I would’ve gone, happily,” he rubbed his eyes angrily. “I would’ve begged my girlfriend to teach you how to drive, because your Mum is not the best driver, I don’t know if your Dad was any better, and I’m not the best teacher, and then, I would’ve taken you on good weekend road trips like my uncle did with me when I was your age. And I’m sorry, Luke, that we won’t get to bond, that you’ll miss out on the best part of your life, and that the world will never know what Luke Evergeen could’ve been. Because if you’d lived what you were supposed to live, and you would’ve stood here to give the eulogy for _my_ funeral, and one day you had died old and your grandchildren had given your eulogy instead of me now, then I’m sure people would’ve said this. That Luke Evergeen was a great son, a great big brother, a wicked student, a gifted athlete, a devoted husband and father, and that above all, he was a good man. Rest in peace, Luke and Greg.” He stepped down, rubbing tears off his eyes, and as soon as he sat down, a tearful Lucy hugged him tight.

“Thank you, Stick. Thank you,” she sobbed into his chest.

M uch later, after the vicar had tried to convince them that this was God’s plan and that one day it’d make sense, that God was good and pure even when he’d taken a young child and his young father, the large congregation stood together, staring at the brand new gravestone that read two names instead of one. Strike knelt between his two surviving and grieving nephews, both of which had tears all over their young faces, and wrapped an arm around each, pulling them close.

The wake was at Lucy and Greg’s house, which filled with strangers dressed in black who spoke fondly of the dead, told anecdotes, and tried to cheer the living up. Strike left Lucy chatting and sniffling with some old friends of hers, and went upstairs looking for Jack and Adam. Following a hunch, he found them in Luke’s old bedroom, sitting on his bed, with arms around each other, talking quietly. Strike knocked on the door and peeked inside.

“Do you guys want to get out of here for a bit?” Strike asked them, and both nodded, standing up and dragging their feet to him. The three crossed paths with Robin downstairs. “Tell Lucy I’m taking them outside for a bit, out of this, okay?”

“Sure,” Robin’s eyes were glassy, and she managed a small smile and squeezed his hand. “Get some time with your boys.”

Strike had initially thought of going on a walk, but since with some therapy Adam and Jack had been doing okay in cars, although a little nervous, Strike encouraged them into his BMW and drove away, out of Bromley.

“Where are we going Uncle Corm?” asked Jack from the backseat.

“Where do you want to go?” asked Strike in return. Jack shrugged.

“Somewhere without so many sad people, don’t you think, Adam?”

“Yes,” said the youngest. “With the sea.”

“Very well, then we’re going to Gillingham,” said Strike, redirecting his so far random route. “D’you want fish and chips?” both nodded in the back. “I’ll get you some good fish and chips.”

Over an hour later and driving past the University of Greenwich, Strike, Adam and Jack had eaten fish and chips at a child-friendly pub, and silently strolled in the darkness of the evening, until he found them a bench in a park overlooking the Thames Estuary, at the spot where the River Medway, as Strike explained, also met the sea.

“Here’s the thing,” said Strike as he sat between them, the three in dark coats and dark suits, looking into the horizon. “I didn’t take you here to tell you about Kent, Medway, or what an estuary is. We’re here because someone’s murdered your father and your son, without any reason, just for the pleasure of doing so, just because that someone loves nothing like causing pain, because she’s sick in the head. D’you know what a psychopath is?”

“No,” Adam replied, leaning against his side.

“A psychopath is someone mentally ill, sick in the head, you know? Someone so sick in the head they can’t stand on someone else’s shoes, feel love and affection, feel empathy or regret, someone who only thinks about themselves and who has no morals, no ethics, no sense of right and wrong, someone focused only in themselves and their own happiness, and someone that because of all of this, becomes extremely dangerous, so that pretty much all psychopaths are murderers, because when you only think of yourself and you can’t feel affection or distinguish between right and wrong, nothing stops you from killing someone to take their car, their money, their house, whatever they have that you want. D’you remember my ex girlfriend Charlotte? Brunette, tall…?”

“Breathtakingly beautiful,” Jack murmured, and Strike snorted a laugh.

“That’s the one.”

“I don’t remember, Uncle Corm,” said Adam.

“Well that’s okay, you were a toddler when I left her, better for you. Charlotte is beautiful, yes, and she’s high class, rich beyond belief, famous, popular and well-known… and unbeknownst to everyone, even to your detective uncle until recently, she is a psychopath. And I want you both to learn that from me and not from the TV in a few days,” said Strike, speaking softly, slowly, gently.

“Is she?” Jack looked surprised. “She wasn’t nice but she didn’t seem so bad.”

“I know, I loved her back then. But that’s the thing with psychopaths, Jack, they can deceive anyone. You, me… anyone could fall into their trap. I met her when I was just a boy in university, I didn’t know she could be so bad, and then I fell in love so hard I never would’ve noticed. Love is blind, they say. Means the more you love the more you may not realize how bad someone truly is, and the more you’ll excuse the inexcusable, because you love too much to want to believe they’re evil,” explained Strike. “Charlotte was like that. She still is. And you both should know that very recently, I found out she alone had plotted to kill me and Aunt Robin putting explosives in our office.”

“Shit! That’s why you were in hospital?” asked Jack, his grandma’s eyes fixed on Strike.

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “Worst is, Jack, that wasn’t enough for her. She went after your mother then, and that’s why your brother and father are dead. Charlotte wanted you all dead.”

“But we’ve done nothing to her!” Adam argued, indignant. Jack looked like he could punch someone.

“She doesn’t care, Adam. You’re my family, and Charlotte didn’t like you and didn’t like me, so she wanted us all dead. And I’m deeply, deeply sorry I ever introduced her to you, that I ever brought her poison into your house… had I known who she really was, had I suspected anything… I would’ve never dared. Perhaps then Greg and Luke would be alive still.”

After a moment of silence, it was Jack who spoke first.

“Does Mum know?”

“Yes.”

“Is she pissed off with you?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Then I’m not either,” Jack shrugged. “You said psychopaths can deceive anyone… and she tried to hurt you too, right? Then she fooled us all. She didn’t love you when you loved her. She’s the one we should be mad with.”

“Yeah,” Adam nodded.

Relieved and touched, as well as amazed by his nephews’ understanding, Strike smiled softly at them. He felt he was about to find out just what he’d been missing out on, how wonderful and incredible his nephews could be, what the little men they were.

“Thank you,” said Strike. “Anything you guys want to confess, or was it just me?”

Adam bit his lip for a moment.

“Luke was a bit of a twat sometimes,” Adam said, and Strike couldn’t help but laugh.

“Adam!” but Jack was giggling too, and then Adam was giggling. “Okay fine sometimes he was…”

“One time I called him an arsehole in front of your mother,” confessed Strike, and the nephews, who hadn’t smiled all day before, roared in laughter.

“You did not!” Adam cried-laughted.

“I totally did. And I called you a little whiny prick,” Strike pinched him fondly, smiling. “But I was wrong. Luke was a twat sometimes, and a good guy others, and you are actually quite all right. You know you have your mother’s eyes?” Adam nodded, then shrugged.

“It’s okay, I don’t like you all the time either.”

“I guess,” Jack intervened. “Family’s just family, right. You can not like someone all the time, like we don’t like Mum all the time… but you still love them, because you know if you were in trouble, they’d show up and you’d do the same.”

“I couldn’t have said it any better,” Strike smiled fondly at Jack, and threw an arm around each of them. Silence set again as the boys leaned against Strike and the three stared at the little lights emerging in the dark horizon in the opposite shore, the cold breeze of the ocean chilling them a little.

Each fell into their own thoughts for a long time, enjoying just sitting there, and eventually Adam spoke.

“Uncle Corm, why do you never take me somewhere fun like you take Jack?”

“To be honest with you…” Strike sighed. “When I was a kid I was shit with other kids. I always preferred the company of older people, and all the friends I made as a child happened because they approached me first, and were super insistent we’d get along. So I don’t really know how to deal with kids, and I’m only just learned, even when I’m old… old people aren’t always as smart and skilled as they seem. Your brother Jack, contrary to you or Luke, always seemed to like me for some reason, and nagged me with his affection until I had no choice but return it,” Jack snorted a laugh, but it was the truth. “It helps he likes the same stuff I like. D’you want to come with us next time?” Adam nodded. “Then it’s done. We’ll do something you like, for a change.”

“I like the Natural History Museum,” said Adam. “I like animals.”

“Good! We can go there and then to the zoo, uh? Next week.”

“Cool,” Adam smiled, and Jack too. “And Uncle Corm… I’m not always good with kids either. Sometimes I pick fights in school.”

“Yeah?” Strike looked surprised. “Woah. I guess I could’ve just told you guys the truth all along, now you’re big enough. Oh, do you like Legos? I like Legos. Fucking expensive though, but we could buy a big one and do it together?”

“A Star Wars one!” Jack suggested excitedly.

“A spaceship!” added Adam, and Strike nodded, satisfied.

“We’ll do that,” Strike promised, bringing them close. “You know what? It’s going to suck for a while. When my Mum died, and personally I think someone killed her, it sucked for years, sometimes it still does, but then there are happy things too, things that make all the pain worth the suffering. One day, you’ll be surrounded by great friends who care about you for real, who’d do anything for you, and you’ll fall in love, you’ll travel the world, you’ll work the stuff you love and you’re passionate about, you’ll still have each other through thick and thin, and life will be good, and when you look bad, you’ll realize it was worth going through the rough bits. Because with these things, if they don’t sink you… they make you stronger. I promise.”

“Will you and Aunt Robin be close to us when we’re older?” Jack asked after a moment. “Like Ted and Joan with you and Mum?”

“Yes,” said Strike without even needing to think. “We’ll be there for you, always.”

  
  


  
  



	15. Piece by piece

** Chapter 15: Piece  by piece. **

Strike entered the house hours later, with Adam asleep in his arms, limping a little due to his extra weight, and Jack by his side, yawning. The house was quieter and darker, not so crowded any more, but they heard laughter in the sitting room, so they walked over and saw Lucy, Ted, Tracey -who appeared on a photograph of Lucy’s birthday years back, when she dated Strike, just in front over the fireplace-, Wyatt, Ilsa, Nick and Robin were still there in their black clothes and having strong drinks, except for the pregnant woman, and laughing talking quietly.

“Hey,” Lucy grinned, looking up at them, “there’s my boys!”

“Uncle Corm took us to see the ocean in Gillingham,” Jack went to hug his Mum. “And we had fish and chips and Uncle Corm told us about the River Medway, that goes from Sussex to Kent, right Uncle Corm?”

“Good memory as always,” Strike smiled at his nephew, and Lucy looked like she was about to have a fit from surprise and sudden glee.

“Oh my sounds great! So was it fun?”

“It was beautiful,” said Jack, and yawned. “Goodnight, I’m going to bed.”

“Sweet dreams Jackie,” Ted patted his head affectionately.

“Yeah, I’m going to put them in bed,” said Strike, Adam still passed out in his arms.

“Good, there’s a whiskey on the rocks here with your name on it,” said Robin pointing to a glass waiting on the coffee table.

“Uhm, love you,” Strike smirked, making her snigger, and went upstairs with the boys.

After convincing Jack to brush his teeth, putting the pyjama on the non-collaborative, sleeping Adam, and tucking both boys in bed, Strike got rid of his jacket and tie, put on a jumper and descended back down the stairs, where the adults kept taking quietly, in a light tone, and getting a little tipsy, judging by how red some were. Lucy’s  knee in a cast rested on top of a cushion on the coffee table, and she cradled a half empty glass of whiskey Strike topped before squeezing between Robin and Ilsa in the three piece suite, and giving his glass a long sip. He hadn’t ignored how Lucy and Wyatt sat side by side, and how he’d been so nice with her and the boys all week.

“So Gillingham?” Lucy turned to his brother, amused.

“Adam wanted to see the ocean,” Strike shrugged. “And I happen to know a good pub there, cause I once dated a girl that worked in the Medway Campus of the University of Greenwich nearby. By the way, next week I’m taking the boys to the zoo and the Museum of Natural History because apparently Adam likes animals.”

“You guys are bonding now? So that’s what I had to do, bury a child and then…” in spite of her words, Lucy was smiling, clearly teasing him.

“Hey, until I was nearly cooked in my office, you didn’t give me the cash, we have a tendency in this family to wait for tragedy to be nice,” Strike joked darkly, seeing she was for once open to dark mood, and Lucy laughed.

“Yeah well… you take them to the museum. Adam has a volcanoes exam in three weeks, bet it’ll be useful.”

“Pff, easy. The earth gets angry, vomits lava, everybody dies,” Strike explained the volcanoes quickly, eliciting laughter. Happy to see his sister laugh, he just smiled.

“Okay but,” said Tracey said when the laughter died. Her husband had been around earlier, but was probably gone to look after their little daughters. “Am I the only one curious as to when did you date a Greenwich _professor?_ ”

“Ok I exaggerated a little, fine, I never really dated her,” Strike rolled eyes. “1999, I spent a wild week in Gillingham with some SIB friends of the time, don’t even remember why, met this girl on day one in the pub, and we spent our time wisely in bed for a long week. All I remember about her is she was a professor and things I’m not supposed to say in front of my uncle.” He added, making them laugh with his antics. “In less funny notes, I told the boys about Charlotte, don’t kill me Luce.”

“Do they hate you?”

“No, but funnily they asked similarly about you.”

“Then all good,” Lucy sipped from her whiskey. “They’re fine, right? You haven’t returned them broken?”

“They’re fine,” Strike nodded. “They’re convincing me to get them Legos, now that I’ve got the money and they know it.”

“Aw, look how’s softening up,” Robin grinned at him, intertwining their fingers on her thigh.

“It’s all your bloody fault, you know?”

“Mine?”

“Yes. Last year, on Valentine’s Day after Max invited me for dinner with your brother and his friends and I appeared drunk and said the shit I said, and what did you shout at me?”

“A bunch of stuff,” replied Robin.

“Did you?” Lucy looked curious.

“Well, he appeared drunk, and, no now I’m telling the story,” Robin interrupted Strike. “My brother Jon was over with some dumb friends talking dumb shit over dinner, and Cormoran gets pissed and opens his mouth a bit too much, then leaves. So I bloody followed him to the street and ripped him a new one because he deserved it.”

“Oh lord,” Lucy laughed. “And what did you say?”

“Well she pointed out how much of a tosser I am sometimes,” said Strike. “And then she made me apologize first—,”

“I did nothing, you apologized first on your own!”

“Because you’re too nice!” Strike chuckled. “Can’t bloody stay mad at you, and now my nephews call you auntie and freaking adore you, you realize? You give me no choice but stepping up my game, or my own nephews will leave me for you. And they’re young now, but Jack’s going to be a young adult soon and he’s going to make a handsome one…”

“Oh my God, I’m not going to— ew, ew!” Robin shook her head, repelled, and Strike laughed at her expense. “Let’s just— I’ll stick to one Nancarrow, uh? And if I get sick of you, I’ll return you to Tracey.”

“Hey I’m not taking refunds, I have a husband thank you,” Tracey laughed, and Wyatt smiled at her.

“Nah, she’s not returning me,” Strike leaned against Robin’s shoulder. “I’m good in bed, cook, and take her to nice travels, she’s not stupid.” Robin chuckled, drinking her whiskey and kissing the top of his head as his eyes closed.

“Right, but you’re going to bed and quite frankly, so am I,” Robin pushed him to his feet gently. “I’m knackered, good night.”

“Night night!”

A bit later, Strike hugged Robin from behind in bed, his hands stretched under her t-shirt to cover her belly, hugging her like she’s a stuffed animal.

“Hey Robin?” he asked in the dark.

“Mmm?”

“I promised Jack and Adam when they’re adults and we’re old, we’ll be there for them like Ted and Joan with us, is that okay?”

Robin smiled in the dark, understanding the meaning behind his words.

“More than okay, my love.” Strike smirked triumphally and kissed the nape of her neck, closing his eyes, and drifting into sleep.

I n the morning, it was raining when Robin woke up and couldn’t convince herself, despite the luring warmth of Strike’s body, to go back to sleep, so she tucked Strike in bed, put on her dressing gown, and walked down the stairs. She passed by the bathroom, where she grabbed the first aid kit, and went to the kitchen thinking of changing her shoulder bandages while waiting for the tea to brew. To her surprise, Lucy was already there, lazily scrolling down her phone with  a mug of tea.

“Hi, good morning,” said Robin. “How did you get down here on your own with your knee?”

“Morning!” Lucy smiled at her. She had bags under her eyes, but at least she wasn’t tearful. “Ted helped me, he likes to get up crazy early and go for a walk. Buy the paper, that sort of thing.”

“Nice, want more tea?” asked Robin as she filled the kettle.

“I’m good, thanks,” Lucy replied. “Slept well?”

“Yeah,” Robin nodded. “I must be so used to waking up early I couldn’t oversleep like I’d planned,” she grabbed a croissant and gave it a bite while she sat down. “D’you mind if I tend to my wound? I should change the bandage every morning so it doesn’t get infected.”

“Oh, go ahead.”

Robin pulled down her loose collar and carefully removed the gauze of the previous day, frowning at the ugly stitches. It didn’t look infected, just as what it was, a bullet would.

“Looks painful,” Lucy commented. “You all right?”

“Yes, well, it’s a bitch but at least she paid,” Robin applied antibacterial and healing cream and applied a new gauze with surgical tape from the first-aid kit. “How are you doing?” Lucy shrugged.

“Good days, bad days, rock bottom moments,” she said. “Enforced daily therapy helps, I guess. And Wyatt’s probably the only psychologist I actually like, he’s had good advice.”

“Yeah?” Robin looked, interested. “Didn’t know he’d been talking with you a lot.”

“Oh yeah,” Lucy nodded. “Nothing bothersome, he’s quite comforting… did you know his wife and daughter also died?”

“What?” Robin’s eyes widened in surprise. “He had a kid? He was married?”

“Yeah… he said it’s no secret, it just doesn’t usually come up in conversation,” said Lucy. “But turns out we have a lot in common, so after he was in hospital visiting me and then Jack, we started to talk a lot and became friends right? And he told me that years ago, in his early twenties, he married his high school sweetheart. They had this lovebirds story, super romantic, and then five years ago she got pregnant, and they were happy. But during labour, his wife had complications and died, the poor thing… and their baby girl died with her. He was heartbroken, got super depressed and suicidal and all…”

“Bugger,” Robin frowned, making a mental note to know more about her colleagues.

“Good thing he was a forensic psychologist, right? He told me he went to a Buddhist retreat, he’s Buddhist, and that healed him a lot, helped him keep going. Also the same meds I’ve been given and therapy… and now he’s much better. He told me he hasn’t dated since or anything, but that he’s way happier with himself than he ever was, so he’s happy being single, all he cares about is keeping a healthy happy life. He told me he saw so much of the himself of back then in me, felt so bad for me and the boys having some idea of what it feels like… and felt drawn to help. And he’s a good friend, and a good guy.”

“I know he has a great reputation in the Met, you know our friends recommended him,” said Robin, pouring her tea. “It’s good you found such a good friend, Lucy, someone who helps… really good.”

“Yeah…” Lucy nodded. “Speaking of good people, I should thank you.”

“Me?”

“What you’re doing with Cormoran,” said Lucy, looking at her with gentle blue eyes, “it’s huge, Robin.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Robin replied, sincerely confused.

“You make him happier like I’ve never seen him, in my whole life. You know what it is like to be in our forties pretty much, and having never seen my brother so happy? At our age? It’s huge.”

“You’re exaggerating, it can’t be…”

“But it is. He’s his best self, making heart warming speeches, having healthy crying because he deals with his emotions healthily instead of pushing it all in like he’s always done, he’s thriving at work, being a great boyfriend, a better friend, a heck of an uncle… it’s not just me, you know? Ted, Tracey, Dave Polworth even, and Nick and Ilsa say it too. Tracey’s been an old friend since they dated, the only other girlfriend of his I’ve befriended actually, and she commented last night how surprised she was with how different he was after all these years, and Nick said, not me, he said, that’s Robin, that’s what she does to him. Everyone else agreed. Wyatt thinks that perhaps he wasn’t ideal because he wasn’t okay, and that whatever wasn’t okay with him is healing with you, so that’s why he’s so different, because he’s okay now, happy… I’m inclined to agree.”

R obin watched her, so stupefied she forgot her tea. She’d never really known that much of Strike’s private and personal life, his inside world, his feelings… and hearing everyone who knew him from long agreed he was a completely different, improved, happier, healthier version of himself, because of anything she’d done, was not only incredibly surprising, wonderful and sweet, but also somewhat sad, because it meant Strike had secretly, perhaps even to himself, been dealing with some storms his whole forty years of life, that stopped him from being his best self.

“It’s true he’s been… bit different,” Robin admitted upon examination. “More open, affectionate, romantic… but I thought that’s just boyfriend version.”

“Oh, ask Tracey, she’ll tell you it’s not,” said Lucy with a small smile. “They were colleagues too, remember? And she said once that boyfriend Corm is just like normal Corm, but he fucks you proper at night and tells you sweet nothings here and there.” She snorted a laugh. “That’s why it didn’t work out. She wanted marriage, kids, even thought of having those things with him at the time… he didn’t. I guess he wasn’t ready to think of anything but the army, back then.”

T houghtful, Robin took a sip from her tea.

“Perhaps it was bad timing,” Robin shrugged. “I don’t know… I think he wants to spend his life with me. Nobody’s talking wedding bells, I already married once and don’t necessarily need it twice… just saying, we do think of each other as… a definite thing, kinda? I mean, we’re committed. I wouldn’t be letting your sons call me auntie otherwise. But I don’t know about kids and any of that…” she shrugged. “Perhaps it’s just not our thing.”

“Well,” Lucy sighed, thoughtful. This experience had changed them all, after that. “Between you and me, I didn’t always want kids either. Greg and I fell in love really quickly, shortly after college… funnily enough he was an ex’s friend. And he was a churchgoer when I wasn’t, wanted kids when I wasn’t sure… in the end, I thought whatever happens, happens, and if I’m with him that’s all I want. I didn’t actively reject parenthood, so it was all right. For years after our wedding, we didn’t talk about kids much, but I began to think, you know, I want someone to be here when we’re old. I wanted the experience of Joan and Ted… and so I got pregnant, pretty much immediately after I said okay fine. And everything changed, my whole world… and then it was like an addictive experience, I wanted them until I found raising three kids exhausting enough,” she side smiled.

“You’ve done a good job with them,” Robin encouraged her.

“And I still got a lot to do…” Lucy admitted. “It’s strange now to think the two men who changed my world and my views so completely are gone. But you see, I’ve no regrets. I loved as hard as I could for as long as Greg and I had, I gave my first baby the best of me and tried my best every time he reached a new stage in life… and now, hopefully Jack and Adam will grow to be good men, and when I’m old, regardless of what they do with their lives, they’ll be around, perhaps make me grandma or just… be good boys who check on their Mum now and then. And I’ll know I got the most out of life, you know? Did it all, everything in the book, and motherhood… you don’t do it to not be alone tomorrow. You do it because the experience in itself is incredible. Nothing teaches you more, nothing grows you more, nothing changes you more, unless, perhaps, big deaths. I came from a fractured family with no idea of how to do better, but wanting to have a proper family, united, close, in a proper home, and I made it. I’ve lost every important figure you can lose except a father. A mother, a husband, a child… Corm and Ted, thankfully, stay, and Adam and Luke, but even our little brother Switch Whittaker… he could be dead for all I know. And the only thing that makes it worth it all to me is family making a home. It’s different for other people, maybe for Stick and you… but what I mean to say Robin is… you don’t have to have it all figured out from day one, and whatever it is you guys end up having or not, things happen in due timing, and above it all, you have each other. That’s the most important part. And is okay not to think of kids if all you want to do is treasure and cherish each other forever. Perfectly valid, there’s nothing like good old love.”

“Do I smell tea?” Strike suddenly walked in, eyes half closed, hair a mess as per usual, in his pyjamas and socks, big and dishevelled, and Robin smiled at him.

He was the best sight for her sore eyes, in the world.

  
  



	16. Oh love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you always for the support and your comments, which are always, even if they're only emojis or short things, very much valued and appreciated and keep my work in AO3 going.

** Chapter 16:  Oh love. **

“Tell you what.”

Strike’s voice came up as they both sat in his car, laptops open, browsing for flats for him for what seemed like time number two billion, on a rainy Monday morning, after dropping Jack and Adam for their first day of school, two weeks after Greg and Luke’s death. They’d come to the school with Lucy, given hugs and words of encouragement, driven Lucy to her two-hour therapy session, and parked in front of the school in case any of the boys called wanting to be picked-up, if the day got too hard.

“You tell me what,” said Robin in response.

“Move in with me.”

“And now you’re raving,” she snorted a laugh. Cormoran Blue Strike couldn’t possibly be suggesting…

“Why not? I’ve been thinking about it a lot, okay, it’s not an impromptu idea,” said Strike, insistent. “We’ve been together for four months next week, we’ve spent the last two weeks living together in my sister’s house no less, and the first week I wasn’t going to work but the second yes, so we know what it is like to live and work together and we’re doing it again this week and the following with Jack’s birthday coming up, it’s going to be a month living together, Robin, and we haven’t even tried to kill each other yet. So why don’t we just buy a flat together? You’re helping me find one already anyway, and I’ve got money now and we can split the daily expenses like food and taxes and it’d be less than your rent, I bet you. Come on…”

Robin stared at him, stunned. She would have never expected Strike, who in her mind fondly labelled as ‘Mr Independence’ most of the time, to ditch the one chance he had of finally living in a great flat all alone, just because he wanted her to join him. She thought of her own desires for independence. If she could afford her own place, she would, as much as she loved Max, and it probably wouldn’t pass by her mind to consider Strike, she’d put her own independence first. But she hadn’t led the lonely life Strike had. And now, she realized, living with Strike didn’t sound like losing her independence, but like gaining in that, and in any other area of her life, because independence doesn’t mean loneliness; it means being able to be your own person, like the sun that exists and shines alone, with company, or however it wishes, without letting anyone opaque its light.

“Are you _completely_ sure? Because if I move in with you, then Max has to find another way to afford the rent alone, and if he gets another flatmate and then you decide living and working with me all day is too much, I won’t have where to go back to.”

With the softest of smiles and a glint in his eyes, Strike closed his laptop and squeezed Robin’s hand gently. This felt like an important moment, a life changing moment, and he wanted to be all in.

“Robin,” her name came out of his lips sweetly, while his dark eyes scanned her fondly, “I love you more than anything in the world. I want to spend my life with you. I want to do life with you, every part of it, and that includes washing your laundry, cooking for you, giving you feet rubs… and having things that are ours. Our flat, our life, our grocery shopping, our bed. Our safe nest to go home to after a long, tiring day. I’m sure.”

Robin cracked a chuckle.

“Our nest? Was that a pun because we have bird names?” Strike snorted a laugh.

“Didn’t even realize, but see? How great would it be to have you around all the time to catch my accidental puns and tease me? Or how ideal would be not to have to say ‘see you tomorrow’ but to say, instead, ‘see you at home’ and then, ‘goodnight’ every night?”

“No need to keep giving reasons, you had me at I love you,” said Robin, and grinned. “Let’s find us a nest, Strike.” He looked so rewardingly happy that one would’ve thought she’d said yes to marry him.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, let’s have our life that we do together, all the time,” Robin leaned over the gearbox and her lips caressed his softly. “Now open your laptop and let’s keep digging.” He bit his lip and stared at her like the most excited kid, before opening his laptop.

Later that day, Robin was impressed by the domesticity of the situation ahead of her. Strike and her had gone off to work once it became clear both boys were doing all right and Lucy was back home in case they called from the school, since she wasn’t returning to work for another week just yet. When they had returned, in time for a quick dinner, Strike had cleaned up the kitchen while Lucy helped the boys with catching up with school homework and activities and Robin did some extra work from the computer, and then he had fallen asleep on the sofa, where Robin had just realized she’d also been nodding off, as her eyes opened and she examined her surroundings.

Strike was still snoring away, and Adam sat on the carpeted floor drawing on the coffee table, with his crayons and papers sprawled over it, while Lucy and Jack were still ahead at the table, and both looked exhausted. Adam looked up when he heard Robin move, and he smiled with his little lips pressed together, so Robin smiled back.

“What are you drawing?” asked Robin lowering her voice.

“You, sleeping,” said Adam, and held up his sheet so she could see a round circle that represented her face with a lot of orange hair, and then sticks that represented her body and extremities, little ‘n’ representing her closed eyes, and a brown figure that was likely the sofa.

“That’s so cute Adam, thanks,” Robin grinned sincerely. She’d never had a child make drawings for her before, with her niece being so young.

In the background, Jack puffed in loud frustration.

“I don’t get his, Mum, and I’m already getting a headache, can’t we just continue tomorrow?”

“Jack, I’m sorry but you have Music tomorrow, and then the teacher’s going to ask you this, so you need to get it. Come on, two of your grandparents worked in the music industry, you’ve got it in the blood. Look, let’s finish with the melody and then you go to bed, okay? This is an easy one, you just have to put a cross in the options that aren’t melodic, you finish that exercise and I’ll write you a note saying you did what you could, your teacher knows you’re recovering from a concussion and at least with this done, you can say you did half the homework.”

“Fine…” Jack puffed again, and Robin could see honest exhaustion all over his face as he leaned over his book again, grabbing his pen to write the answers in his notebook. Year 7 seemed to long ago to her now, couldn’t imagine to Lucy. “The song ‘Let it be’ by the Beatles, yeah of course, right?”

“Good, now the crackling of a fireplace, what do you say?”

“Uhm…” Jack scratched his cheek. “I’m not sure… what was a melody again?” Tired but empathetic and with her leg on a chair, Lucy gave him an intense look that meant to say ‘you got this, come on!’.

“A succession of musical notes with some type of rhythm. A sound can be melodic or unmelodic, depending on whether there’s any of that. You’ve got a good ear for music, does the crackling of a fire sound like a melody you’d hum or dance to?”

“No but it still sounds nice, I suppose it could have notes, I don’t know. If you imitate it with tapping of fingers it does sound like a melody a little…”

“Jack,” Strike had gotten up and yawned, walking over to his nephew and leaning over his homework. “A melody is not just something that sounds nice, okay? A heartbeat sounds nice. The crackling of the fire, an old train rattling, the rain against the windows, someone’s breathing, laughter,” Robin smiled softly, staring at them. She wanted to engrave this in her mind, Lucy’s happy and relieved expression seeing someone helped in her exhausted form, Jack’s look of awe. “Many things sound nice, and none of them are melodies, okay? It’s like… there are many attempts of poems in the world but what’s really a poem? It’s the same. A melody has a soul, Jack. A melody makes you want to dance, to hum along, to sing, a melody stays in your head for days, a melody reminds you of a moment of your life like… the club music in the 80s will always be your Mum and I’s teens. So this is a trick question, see? You’ve got six options. Let it be, the fireplace, the beeping of a kettle, dragging feet, a cough, and drumming. Does a fireplace have a soul?”

“No.”

“Exactly. A kettle?”

“No.”

“Dragging feet?”

“Not really.”

“A cough?”

“No.”

“Drumming?”

“Yeah, you can dance to drumming.”

“There you go,” said Strike. “And next time you have a doubt, think of whether it’d make your stomach flutter in the right ways. Now off to bed, you two.”

“Thanks!” Jack grabbed his books and dashed for the Adam. “Come on Adam, last one’s an old man!”

“I’m not old!” Adam ran up the stairs and Robin turned, smiling as she saw Jack purposely walk slower, until his brother was well ahead. As he began walking up the stairs, Jack looked up at a family photograph hung on the wall next to him and his lips twitched into a small smile, he nodded to himself, and continued to climb the stairs, leaving Robin with a prickle in her eyes.

“Thanks, Stick,” said Lucy, and held back a yawn. “Well, now the boys are in bed, I’ll go do some work.”

“I thought you were taking the week off?” Strike inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“I am a book illustrator at one of the biggest editorials in the country, they offer me all the time I want but then they’ll find someone else and I need to put plates on the table for the boys,” Lucy shrugged. “I’m sending some work from here, I usually work mostly from home anyway, I just have… reduced load. So I’m going to pour myself a good glass of wine,” she stood on her crutches, “get my computer, and pass some sketches from paper to digital.”

“You should go to bed, you’re knackered and tomorrow you’ve got early therapy again, Luce…”

“Stick, as much as I love this new version of you that’s all present and caring and helpful always, I am a mother and a professional, I can’t depend on everybody’s help all the time, so the sooner I get used to the full weight of mothering during the day, working while my children sleep, and sleeping when I can, the better. You guys go off to bed, uh? You’ve had a long day.” She disappeared off to the kitchen, crutching slowly.

Strike turned to Robin, feeling her eyes on him and knowing she was awake, and raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t look at me, stubbornness runs in _both_ of you,” Robin side smiled. “Let’s help her upstairs and let her be.”

“She’s overdoing it.”

“She’s mourning. It’s a process, so trust the process.”

Ted was already in bed, in Jack’s room. Strike knew he had no choice but to nod and wish his family weren’t so stubborn, but Robin was right; he was the same. At least he could be understanding.

Then, the sound of something breaking and Lucy cursing and sobbing made them both run to the kitchen, only to see pieces of a broken mug scattered across the floor and Lucy with her elbows on the counter and her face in her hands, crying.

“I b-broke L-Luke’s mug! I-It was an a-accident! Fucking c-clumsy!” Lucy sobbed, and Robin carefully padded over to Lucy and wrapped an arm around her.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Robin asked, full of worry.

“N-no,” Lucy looked down, crying. “L-Luke p-painted it for m-me when h-he was s-seven! I r-ruined it!”

“Okay, don’t worry, let’s… carefully take you upstairs, and I will collect all the pieces and put it together, all right? Ted’s good with these things, he’ll help make sure it looks great tomorrow, and you can use it again,” promised Robin, and Strike was once again swoon by her kindness. “Come, Luce, it’s not ruined, it’s still Luke’s mug and we’ll fix it, it only broke in a few pieces, not a big deal.”

Lucy looked at her full of hope.

“Y-yeah?”

“Yes,” Robin nodded, and managed a small smile. “Come, let’s go upstairs.”

“I’ll take her,” said Strike. “You pick up the pieces before I accidentally step somewhere with my fake foot?”

“Yes, good idea, you two get out of here…”

Strike helped his sniffling sister upstairs, and instead of letting her work, helped her into her pyjamas and tucked her in bed, lying with her for a while until she stopped crying and fell asleep, hot tears still in her cheeks. Strike got up from her bed feeling like they were back being kids in a horrifying commune, consoling each other to sleep, only that this time there was nothing he could do. Her sister was still a widow and he couldn’t bring her men back, nor give her any of her mothers back, nor nothing. Rick had been coming around every day, and if her own father couldn’t manage to cheer her up much, not even playing her music, he didn’t think he could do much.

When he came downstairs, Strike saw Robin was already busy with about a dozen pieces of mug and glue, trying to put it all back together. So far she had the bottom. She looked up at him with tired glassy eyes and her hair up in a bun.

“It’s so tricky, this glue says it’s for these things too, but it takes forever to dry and it gives time for the piece to move… also, I’m worried it’ll have leaks or be full of glue lines. How do you think it’s looking?”

“It’s… not bad,” said Strike. “We can throw it away, Robin, it’ll hurt but Lucy will move on.”

“It’s something her dead son painted for her when he was little Cormoran, he even drew her face, and its sentimental value is more expensive than drinks at The Ritz. I promised it’d get it back and I will, and if it leaks at least she can still look at it or use it as a small pot for plans.”

“You’re a really nice person, Robin.” She smiled tiredly at him.

“You say that a lot, you know?”

“It’s not less true.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “You guys deserve nice things. Comes easy, being nice here.”

“She was so… wouldn’t stop crying. Sometimes I think she’ll never stop, she’ll just get better at hiding it and faking a smile.”

“At least she’ll have the kindness to fake a smile,” Robin teased, carefully using a tooth stick to hold a small piece inside where her fingers were too big.

“What am I gonna do, Robin?” catching his actually serious tone, Robin packed her teasing and turned to him, seeing sincere worry. “She’s my little sister and I can’t help her. I can’t bring Mum back, nor Joan, nor Greg, nor Luke, I can’t protect her, I can’t… and none of this would be happening if I fallen in love with bloody Charlotte.”

“No, none of this would be happening if she wasn’t a psychopath,” Robin corrected him. “Babe, y—,” she suddenly caught herself and Strike raised a brow. “Did I just call you babe?”

He snorted a laugh and nodded.

“I think it was cute, considering I’m the total opposite to a baby.” Robin glared with a little smile.

“Was it cute really, or are you just teasing?”

“Both,” Strike pecked her lips. “Babe.”

“Odd, but I’ll get used to it. Anyway,” Robin returned to the topic, knowing it was too serious to abandon it following the temptation of an easy exit granted by the small light-hearted moment, “you are helping more than you realize. Now is not about trying to shield her from the pain… the pain is here. No more time to keep her from falling, she has fallen. Now is about helping the wounds heal with love, kindness, patience and attention, of encouraging her to talk when she needs to talk about them or about what’s happened or about how she feels, instead of pushing her feelings into a trunk and burying the key, and about trying our best to give her the tools to manage the pain. Like… if a child falls, you teach them crying helps, hugs help, comfort food helps, the same thing now. We need to give her grown-up tools to cope, and that starts in therapy and antidepressants and continues as a family, proving her every day that she has people on her corner any time. She doesn’t need us to resuscitate the dead, she needs us to help her deal with the fact that they’re dead, and keep going even when the pain feels like it’s going to kill her, and even when she wishes it would.”

S trike nodded slowly, nibbling his thumb in thought.

“D’you think I should stay longer than next week?”

“No,” said Robin. “Cormoran, we’re not going to live far, just in London, and she’s doing great with physiotherapy for her knee and drives an automatic so she won’t need us to drive her for much longer. We’ll get a flat with a good guest room or two in case she or the boys ever want company, we’ll make ourselves available at all times, we’ll insist she call us anytime, we’ll call her daily, we’ll come by after work, but she needs to figure out what her new life is going to be, to figure out how to be the only adult in the house, to cultivate her friendships so she doesn’t go mad talking just with children all the time, to get used to the emptiness in the house and in her life and find a new routine that helps her get going. And at the risk of using too many metaphors because that’s what you get when I’ve spent weeks surrounded by kids… it’s like learning to ride a bike. If you want her to learn, you need to let her go solo at some point, and be there to catch her if she falls.”

“I know,” Strike puffed, rubbing his tired eyes. “I’m just so scared she’s going to… I don’t know, sink resoundingly? Kill herself, become an alcoholic or an addict, or God knows what. As if it wasn’t enough to worry about Ted after Joan, and this shit comes a month after her death anniversary, it’s like we can’t get a break…”

“Hey,” Robin rubbed his back soothingly. “She’s not going to do that, none of that.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s Lucy, and like it or not she’s a Nancarrow to the bone, stubborn warriors. She won’t sink just out of stubbornness.”

Strike snorted a laugh and Robin smiled softly.

“We’re that bad, are we?”

“But I still love you all,” Robin kissed him, caressing his cheek.

“I love you all too.”

“I know… but you should tell them more often.”

“Please, then Lucy won’t ever stop crying!”

“It’ll be happy tears.”

He wrapped his strong arms around her as she set back to fixing the mug, and smiled against her shoulder. So this is what it feels like to have a life partner, who helps you through the roughest storms, sits at midnight to fix  your dead nephew’s mug, and lets you support your heavy weight on her without complain when you’re tired, sad, and having a rough few weeks.

Strike knew he could easily get used to this.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you always for the support and your comments, which are always, even if they're only emojis or short things, very much valued and appreciated and keep my work in AO3 going.


	17. To the future

**Chapter 17: To the future.**

Jack Theodore Evergeen had been born, Strike remembered, on a rainy Cornish afternoon, on April 17 th 2003, twelve years before. Now, his family had to put on some effort to make it a good birthday, even if it fell on a Friday short of three weeks after a horrible car crash that had ended the lives of his big brother and father, and left him with daily counselling, frequent headaches, and nearly nightly nightmares. He had expressively made his family promise no parties, because he wasn’t in the mood and big noises still bothered his head immensely, so instead they’d have a quiet family dinner and cake after school, and give him the weekend to enjoy his new presents.

He was woken up by his little brother and his mother smothering him with kisses and all the affection, Ted giving him a  piggyback ride to the breakfast table, and full English breakfast ‘for champs’ courtesy of his Uncle Strike.

“Y’know, Jack?” said Strike as he had his coffee and watched his now twelve year old nephew eating his breakfast. He was going to miss family breakfasts a little, now he’d gotten used to them. “I had my first kiss when I was twelve.”

“Early bloomer up here!” Robin chuckled, an arm around Adam’s chair as the boy played with his dinosaur toys and ate his breakfast, and a hand holding her morning tea.

“Who did you kiss, Uncle Corm?” asked Jack, with interest.

“Mary St Thomas, a girl of my class. We were in school, and she pulled me to a corner of our playground and kissed me, just like that. Said it was a Christmas kiss, a week in advance.”

“Wicked,” Jack snorted a laugh. “Did you love her?” Strike chuckled, shaking his head.

“Nobody falls in love until you’re at least… eighteen,” Strike shrugged. “You’re just not mature enough. I thought Mary was the most beautiful girl in the school, she was really sweet and funny, and she was the only girl who treated me kindly in London, while the others thought I was a weirdo.”

The boys giggled, and Lucy smiled fondly at them.

“Who did you have your first kiss with, Mum?” Adam asked then, interested.

“Oh, let me think…” Lucy bit her lip in thought. “Yes, Graham O’Keeler I believe was his name. I was sixteen and at a village party in Cornwall, my first proper party. He was a guy that was in Aunt Ilsa’s class, older than me, and we dated for a short while. He wasn’t really that interesting.” The boys shared boyish giggles, and Adam eyed Strike.

“I thought you and Aunt Ilsa were boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“Nope, that one never happened,” Strike snorted.

“Why? She’s pretty and smart?” said Jack.

“And she’ll be super flattered to hear you say that,” said Strike. “But you see, your Aunt Ilsa is Aunt Ilsa because she’s like a sister to Mum and I. She was literally born two months ahead of me, and her Mum and Joan were schoolfriends, so we were introduced since babies. Ilsa in fact has a photograph of us being bathed together as babies. We got so close whenever I was in St Mawes, that it would’ve been odd to have anything else, we’re pretty much siblings and kissing a sibling like I kissed Mary St Thomas is very, very, very odd. And wrong. Now finish those breakfasts or you’ll be late and Aunt Robin is driving you today.”

“Yes!” Adam raised his arms in celebration and Ted chuckled.

“Someone likes when Auntie Robin does school duty.”

“No offence but she’s the best driver,” said Adam, and Robin smiled sweetly at him.

“Only the best for the best, but Uncle Corm is right, you guys have to finish that food pronto.”

Strike was driving Lucy to physiotherapy that morning, and Ted was going to go grocery shopping and start decorating the house for Jack’s birthday, which left Robin to bring the boys to school, which she didn’t mind. She loved driving and found it refreshing to drive with two young boys who’d sing in the car or quiz each other or play car games, bringing a smile to her lips more often than not. They also argued sometimes, but generally they got along.

This was, however, the first time Robin drove them all alone, since usually either Lucy, Ted or Strike tagged along. So when she parked near the school, she had to get out of the car and make sure the boys had everything with themselves, taking Adam’s hand and walking them both. Being in Year 7, Jack knew where to go and didn’t need to be dropped with his teacher like Adam needed.

“Right, I’ll see you later Auntie Robin,” Jack smiled at her and Robin on impulse, leaned and kissed his cheek, making him blush hard.

“Have a good day, birthday boy, your Mum and Ted will be here at half past three to get you both, uh?”

“Yeah, thanks, have fun Adam!” Jack waved and ran off into the entry patio, and Robin saw him meet with some friends before they all went into the building together.

“Okay Adam, where do you have to go?”

“Over there,” Adam pointed to a smaller adjacent patio for the younger kids, where teachers held signs with their class name and formed lines for all their students. “That’s my class, Auntie Robin, with Miss Dowen.”

“Perfect,” Robin walked over to the teacher, who smiled and waved at Adam.

“Hi Adam, good morning! Hi,” she looked up at Robin and smiled politely, “who’s bringing you today, Adam?”

“This is my Aunt Robin. See you later then, Auntie,” Adam looked hopeful for a kiss like his brother, and Robin smiled and gave him one and a gentle pat on the head.

“Have fun!”

“He’s a good boy,” Miss Dowen saw the boy join his friends in the line. “I didn’t know he had an aunt.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s… I’m his uncle’s partner,” Robin explained. She knew teachers had to be familiar with who was picking up or dropping off kids so if she ever had to pick them up alone, his teacher would know she was family, and not some kidnapper.

“Really? Good,” Miss Dowen smiled, then her expression turned a bit sombre and she lowered her voice. “How is Lucy? Haven’t seen her around much, she still on crutches?”

“Yeah, her medical appointments ten to coincide with mornings so, mainly her brother and I are taking over school trips,” replied Robin. “She’s uh… well, you know. Tough blow, really. But she’s holding up, we’re celebrating Jack’s birthday today, the middle brother.”

“Right, Jack! He was my student when he was younger, I’ll make sure to congratulate him when I see him around,” said the teacher warmly. “Poor family… I’ve heard Luke’s friends have been seeing the school counsellor, not doing that well, but at least Adam seems to be holding up somewhat okay. Probably easier now he’s busy.”

“He’s okay, right? I mean if I have to come pick him up at any point…”

“Don’t worry, he’s just a little more quiet than he used to be,” the teacher shrugged. “I’ve been doing this twelve years, I’ve seen them deal with all sorts of things… but never two close deaths at once. He doesn’t play with cars any more, but he’s doing okay with his classes and his friends, so… baby steps.”

“Yeah…” Robin looked at Adam uneasily for a moment, then remembered she was supposed to be tailing a client’s wife in Vauxhall soon. “Well, I better head to work. Call me if anything.”

“Sure, bye!”

B ack at the office, everything was normal, as if no one had died, no one had had to move to their sister’s or boyfriend’s sister’s house, just like nothing had happened. Strike had already been by, since Lucy’s appointment wasn’t far, and left to tail the suspect of a client’s theft, and Robin caught up with Pat, did some quick paperwork, and left for her own tailing.

She worked relentlessly for hours, keeping an eye on her phone in case the family needed anything, and at lunch time, Robin went to meet Ilsa and Vanessa for a quick lunch together at a pub, before each had to return to their busy days. Strike, whose tailing would’ve brought him all the way to Croydon, wouldn’t be joining.

Robin was more excited than usual about seeing her long time friends, because for the past few weeks, living for Lucy’s family, she had lost touch with her flat, Max, her own friends, and felt like she was trying to live in a separate world while often driving back to hers, but exclusively for work. It drove her slightly mad, even when she was happy she was helping out.

She found her friends already sitting around a little round table in the pub’s patio, with a beer eac h, one of which was most certainly alcohol-free , chatting. When they saw Robin, they both smiled at her and stood up to give her tight hugs. For Ilsa, now seven months pregnant and glowing, this was a little more complicated.

“There you are stranger!” Vanessa grinned, giving her a kiss on the cheek before they sat back down. “What’s up? We have so much catching up to do?”

“You guys first, I’m getting a beer and coming right back.”

When Robin returned with her beer, and while they waited for their orders, Vanessa told them how she was actually having a day off after having worked two full days and nights with close to no breaks, and Ilsa, who wore her court suit, was going home after this, having just managed to get a client to dodge prison by little. It was the same complicated case Robin had caught her working at when she’d last been at her house, and it was finally over, so Ilsa was going to celebrate with a bath and a long nap.

“It’s girls night all around,” Ilsa declared with a grin, cupping her hands around her large belly pressing against her maternity blouse.

“I have to say, Ilsa, pregnancy fits you. Your cheeks are rounder, your skin is glowing, and your breasts surely must be making Nick smile,” Robin teased with a chuckle, taking a sip of her beer. Ilsa laughed cheerfully.

“It was time something went our way,” Ilsa nodded. “Can’t remember how many years we’ve had how many hundreds of arguments about our inability to have kids, but once Baby Girl Herbert comes, it’s one for us and zero for infertility. Can’t wait to raise a fearless warrior lady.”

“Damn right,” Vanessa grinned at them. “Ugh, Oliver’s been asking about kids now too, since we’re married.”

“Really?” Robin looked surprised. “Are you about to announce a pregnancy too?”

“Oh, no, no. I mean we talked about this way in advance, we know we want one kid, maybe two, but surely no more than that,” said Vanessa. “But it’s just not the time, I told Oli, I said babe, I love you but work right now is crazy, if all goes well I could be in for a promotion soon, and once I’m pregnant I’m restricted to office duty, with how boring that is. But he’s in no real hurry, so once it was clarified he backed off, and I think it’ll remain that way. How about you, you haven’t told us any goss? How’s Lucy?” she added with a bit of a grimace.

“Well, today is her middle son Jack’s birthday, so hopefully it’ll be a good day. Lucy is up to date with her physiotherapy, her psychologist, the boys’ therapist says they’re better, Ted’s around for a week more, Corm’s been connecting with the boys taking them to the zoo, the aquarium and stuff, and they’ve been embracing the idea of having an auntie so much their teachers already know me, so things are… looking up,” said Robin, and the food was lowered onto the table.

“That’s good,” Ilsa nodded. “I can’t imagine what Lucy must be suffering… is terrible really.”

“So fucked up. Can’t wait for Charlotte’s trial to come up so the bitch pays, because what she’s putting that family through has no forgiveness,” agreed Vanessa, staring to eat. “And how are you and Corm? Because I mean, he is an emotional wreck, I’ve never gulped that whole number of Mr Grumpy, there’s soft tissue underneath and these things stab right there. And you’ve just been with him what, four months? And you’re already living with him at his sister’s, taking care of his nephews, being called auntie, leaving your flat and your life for them for weeks… aren’t you a little overwhelmed?”

Robin released a deep breath and nodded.

“Honestly, yes. I feel bad just from thinking it because I don’t get to complain with how poor Lucy—,”

“Robin, of course you get to complain,” Ilsa stopped her. “Girl, Lucy has the worst part but you’re the new girlfriend turned Auntie, you deserve a moment and space, like here with your mates, to complain without negative consequences. Vent it out.”

“Indeed!” Vanessa nodded.

“Okay, then…” Robin took a sip of her beer and puffed. “I’m so fucking exhausted like you wouldn’t believe, mentally. Because on one side, I’m getting to discover this new, sweet, lovely, warm, Uncle Corm, who’s such a big guy inside, such a good man, and who I absolutely adore, and I get to know Lucy and Ted better and bond with them and they’re like my own family now, and there are these sweet kids who show me so much affection and make my heart feel like this big after a tough long day,” she extended her arms to signify a big size. “But in the other side… sometimes I feel like it’s happened so suddenly, going from being just me to all of this, that I’m not used to so much people around me constantly and I start to miss my own life, like… I go a bit insane when all my life suddenly revolves around trying to comfort kids I didn’t know much of until a few weeks ago, and a sister I didn’t have four months ago. It just feels surreal to never be alone except at work, to go from my crazy job to… a home with kids playing around, a sister-in-law cooking my dinner… and it’s not a bad thing, it’s just odd. It’s like I went in for a nap and woke up married and a mother. I have like, the boys’ schedules in my phone, I keep checking my phone in case anybody calls saying any of the kids doesn’t feel well and needs me to get him, I miss my bed, and it’s all just… madness.”

“I bet everybody involved feels the same way,” said Ilsa comprehensively. “Next weekend, when you guys pack and move to that new flat, and get your very own new space, settle in, and Lucy and the boys settle into their new reality, everybody will be able to regain some normalcy and put the feet on the ground.”

“Yeah, I hope…” Robin nodded. She and Strike had finally found a flat they really liked and could afford and made an offer some days before, which had been accepted, but since they wanted to stay with Lucy a week more, they were going to use the week to furnish the flat, send their things over, and have it re-painted to their taste, which Strike had insisted on paying for. The scheduling of such things added some madness to their days, but that way they’d get there to a flat nearly fully ready.

“Speaking of moving out, you gonna live with Corm officially, uh?” Vanessa smirked knowingly. “How does that feel? You two going strong?”

“Honestly…” Robin couldn’t contain a smile, and her friends giggled and teased her.

“Aw, our little bird’s all in love!” Vanessa cheered.

“He’s just… I feel like after this madness I’ve gotten to know every side of him, and love it. Even Lucy says he looks changed, happier, like a different person. You should see him playing with the kids and doing homework with them, and being so much more understanding and loving to Lucy… it’s like the family broke only to come back stronger. And I get to witness that and it’s just… incredible. A plus, for sure.”

“He is different,” Ilsa nodded. “Good different. Nick and I were just saying it the other day, that we felt kinda bad because now is like… like when we’ve been super tense and stressed for weeks and only realize we were so bad when it’s over, and we’re smiley and loving again. Only that with Cormoran it was years and it happened so gradually we were never really conscious of it to tackle it. Now you come, and heal him up,” she grinned. “Makes this shit year so much better.”

“Gosh, that bad?” Vanessa looked surprised. “I mean yeah I’ve always known him grumpy and now he’s like with a light in his eyes, but don’t know him so well.”

“I think it began in our teens, Nick and I were saying it…” Ilsa sipped from her beer and continued. “We narrowed it to our teens. Well, mainly me, because that’s when Nick met him so he doesn’t know a different version much. But when Corm was a child, he was so sweet, gentle, kind… like a soft teddy bear you wanted to just squeeze him. And he was so shy and so sensitive, so quiet… They’d bully him in St Mawes when he came to school full of strange accents, but Dave Polworth and I would get him into our friends’ groups and once people knew him they adored him, because once he felt comfortable enough to not be so shy he was the life of the party, all good jokes and loyalty and honest friendship,” Robin and Vanessa smiled softly, both imagining a little Strike, adorable and sweet. “Then he moved to London more or less permanently, and after that he was never the same. Nick always gets baffled when I tell him how Corm was when _I_ met him before him, to him it only really went down after Leda’s death. But now he’s with you and it’s like…” she grinned. “Happy times!”

“And to me too,” Robin admitted. “I know nobody needs someone to complete them, I love my independence, I love feeling whole on my own… but being with Cormoran feels like that sweet surprise when you think a day can’t possibly improve and then it does. Like icing on the cake, or the chocolate chips in the biscuits… and I can’t wait to live with him,” she blushed deeply. “I mean we basically live together already, and it’s great.”

“You don’t know the breeze of fresh air that is to see you so happy,” Vanessa grinned, squeezing her hand affectionately over the table. “Seriously, you two deserve the world.”

“Aw, thanks Vanessa,” Robin grinned back at her. “The craziest part is that okay, nobody’s talking wedding bells but… he keeps saying he wants to spend his life with me.”

“Are we talking about the same Cormoran?” Ilsa looked astonished. “See? I don’t even know the guy any more!”

R obin giggled, nodding, significantly cheered up.

“You know what, I’m going to spend my life with that man,” she said, resolute, and looked smugly at her friends, who smiled warmly at her. “What else could I possibly ever want? He’s handsome, intelligent, funny, loyal, sincere, hard working, shares my passions, likes good music, treats me right and loves me like I want to be loved. We’re going to be the next Ted and Joan, just wait and see, but without cancer and without needing to become our nephews’ parents. Just us against the world, resolving murder until we’re grey and old.”

“Let’s make a toast, to the future,” Ilsa raised her glass. “May it be everything we hoped for.”

  
  



	18. The best uncle

** Chapter 18:  The best uncle. **

“Will you still come around often?” Jack’s worried eyes looked up at Strike as they walked up the street to Strike and Robin’s brand new flat in Camden. 

The area was expensive, but they’d had their eyes set on a cosy little flat sold unfurnished that they had turned into a really nice home, after a couple layers of fresh paint and semi-new second-hand furniture, and they’d loved the whole bustling vibe of Camden, that it was only twenty minutes by car from work, at most, the police station nearby, the parking spots for their two cars, and that it wasn’t isolated at all, which Strike was specially thankful for, mainly because he didn’t want Robin walking alone somewhere quiet and isolated at night just to get a cheaper place in the outskirts. He’d gone pick Lucy, Ted and the boys up, to bring them over to see the flat, only a day after Robin and him had officially moved in. He was so proud of how it looked, humble and cosy yet decent and good and theirs,  and wanted to share it with his family, inviting them over for lunch that Sunday, before Ted returned to Cornwall.

“Of course I’ll come around often, and you know what? Robin and I prepared a guest room so you guys can come stay with us anytime,” said Strike. “From now on, it’s Sunday lunch at Uncle Corm’s, uh? What d’you say, Luce?”

Lucy, who was crutching ahead, her leg just off its cast, that had been replaced by a special knee bandage, but with still two weeks to go before she could start putting weight on it, turned and grinned, listening to their chat.

“Sounds fantastic to me!”

The apartment was a fifth and last storey with a lift in a large residential building, and as Strike opened the door, they found themselves in a little foyer, which had an umbrella stand, an en-suite closet for coats and shoes, and led into the bathroom, a cosy sitting room, and a kitchen-dining room. The sitting room was modestly furnished with just a small sofa, a couple arm chairs, a small TV, a coffee table, a lamp, a large rug, and some bookshelves filled with books, with a double desk in one corner by the window to work, and some plants and decor. The sitting room contained the doors to the two bedrooms, and Strike led them into one of them, not too big, but with enough space for a double trundle bed, an en-suite closet, and a little desk with an armchair. They’d put some shelves on the wall, and decorated with some paintings and a little bonsai,  but the most characteristic part were all the boys’ drawings covering half a wall .

“Here,” said Strike. “A big trundle bed, so you three can come any time. And we also got a big inflatable mattress in case you and Ted all want to crash at once,” he smiled proudly. “Fits in the sitting room if we move the coffee table.”

“Cormoran, this is so thoughtful,” Ted smiled warmly, looking around. “Small, cosy and warm.”

“And we have heating in the winter,” Strike nodded excitedly. “And windows and everything. Nicest place I’ve ever lived that wasn’t paid by Charlotte. Look at the views, you can see Regent’s Park in the far distance.” He was giddy like a child. Forty years, and at last, he had a nice place for himself, to share with the woman he loved.

“I love it,” Adam grinned. “Can we crash at Uncle Corm’s sometimes, Mum?”

“Sure thing,” Lucy looked proudly at Strike, her eyes glistening. “Well done Stick, well done.”

“Let me show you the rest,” Strike guided them to see the small bathroom and then, crossing the foyer, the dinning room with an open-plan kitchen, the area already bustling with activity. Max, George, Vanessa, Oliver, Ilsa and Nick sat with beer and wine around a large second-hand table Strike and Robin had repainted themselves, and in the little kitchen Robin was finishing lunch, but she saw them over the little kitchen bar, and beamed from ear to ear, rushing to welcome them as they were greeted by the others.

“Auntie Robin!” Adam dashed for her, followed by Jack, and she knelt to hug them both and kiss the tops of the heads.

“We missed you,” said Jack, and Strike and Lucy turned to see the sweet picture.

“Surely no more than I missed you!” Robin replied, and beamed at them. “Have you seen your room here? D’you like it?”

“It’s cool!” Jack grinned, nodding.

“And you can see Regent’s Park!” Adam echoed his uncle, and Robin snorted a laugh.

“I know right?! But you know what’s the coolest part of the flat? We have a terrace for you to play in when the weather’s good!”

The terrace wasn’t a big deal, but it opened with a large sliding glass door that made it seem as an extension to the small dining area, and even if it wasn’t so big, they’d put fairy lights and some plants and made it a cosy, romantic spot with incredible views.

“I think you guys got a really nice place,” Nick opined as they all sat for lunch. “And you’ve made something really special with it, it’s hard to believe it’s the same empty lot with no magic and nothing that we first saw in photographs.”

“Robin’s the master mind,” Strike said, opening a new bottle of wine. “Love, this smells fantastic, thanks!”

“You’re very welcomed,” Robin smiled warmly.

“Robin has an incredible touch with places, really knows how to make somewhere special,” said Strike. “I was a bit reticent to decoration, but I must say that once I saw it with the paintings, the photographs and the few plants, it made all the difference.

“Well, Wolfgang and I miss you Robin, but if you upgrade to this cosy nest with your love, we can hardly argue,” Max chuckled at his former flatmate. “It’s nice to see things start to look up…”

T he boys were the first ones to finish eating and dash to the sitting room to play Chess, which Strike had taught them recently and they both liked, plus a few card games Robin had taught them, leaving the adults to top their glasses of alcohol, and go for sweet deserts.

“Are your parents coming to see the new place, Robin?” asked Ted looking fondly at the one girlfriend his nephew had had, that he absolutely adored.

“Oh, no, I gave them a tour through video-call,” said Robin. “They really like it. We didn’t really need anything grand, we already own the office as well and we’re hardly ever here anyway, but we’re quite happy how it’s turned out.”

“Quite happy doesn’t begin to cover it. I’ve already made sure the TV is in the perfect spot to catch the next derby,” said Strike, “and found the perfect sofa spot to be right in front, not get any sunlight reflections, and have my beer on the coffee table within arm’s reach.”

Nick and Oliver laughed, and Robin rolled eyes with half a smile.

“We have our priorities,” Robin teased fondly.

“What was yours?” George inquired.

“Honestly? Making sure our bedroom is a sanctuary of quietness where I can close my eyes and pass out after night surveillances. I am very fond of the terrace too, though,” Robin replied. “Good spot to read, I’ve checked. As long as it doesn’t rain much.”

“Oh that’s a good one,” Strike nodded. “Y’know what I do miss? Having low beams like my attic had, okay I couldn’t really stretch but I could move legless everywhere without a fuss. Here I’ve tried the bedroom-bathroom route, which is not too bad, but the attic was easier.”

“Also a quarter size,” Ilsa pointed out with a smirk.

“Not all of us can live in a manor like you, Baby Girl Herbert won’t be learning to walk she’ll be learning to race in there!” Strike joked, eliciting a laugh.

“Speaking of, when is the baby coming?” Ted inquired.

“Due date is 29th of June, but I think it’s coming sooner, she’s already biggie and she kicks like a football player, which makes me think she’s getting impatient,” replied Ilsa, a hand on her belly. “Just in case we’re not booking any holidays this year. My parents will come up to meet her.”

“Dave’s going to be disappointed she’s not born in Cornwall,” Ted snorted a laugh.

“I know, but girl’s Daddy was insistent his hospital beats any Cornish hospital,” Ilsa eyed Nick with amusement.

“A little detail we’re not telling Dave,” said Nick. “Besides, what’s wrong with being a Londoner? I’m a Londoner. And Ilsa’s Cornish DNA is too strong, kid will be Cornish no matter what.”

“I birthed two Londoners and a Cornish, and virtually they all end up about the same, raised here,” said Lucy with a small smile. “It’s not like one turns out more pirate than the others.”

“See? Dave’s just too nationalist for his own good,” Nick agreed, enjoying his beer with an arm around Ilsa’s chair.

“You gonna get kiddos, Corm?” George asked Strike, raising an eyebrow, and Strike shook his head.

“Nope, I’m happy as things stand. Besides, I already have three nephews and Robin has three brothers that have already provided a niece, give them time and we’ll have enough children around to feel like half parents.”

“Oh, I would’ve thought you’d want a ton of kids, everyone who comes from big families do,” George turned to Robin, somewhat surprised, but Robin shrugged, indifferent.

“Not really, my big brother has a daughter and is already thinking of a second baby, so my parents are not going to be nagging me for a while, and I just… don’t feel the call of motherhood. I used to think of kids, with my ex-husband, three, but now it feels like a crazy thought I was never that enthusiastic about. And Cormoran and I have discussed it now and then just to be sure we want the same stuff, and I really don’t imagine myself raising anyone. I like life as it is, our business is our baby.”

“Parents’ pressure is the worst,” Max nodded. “At the end of the day, I see the joy of being an uncle, period. If they poo themselves, you can always pass them over back to their parents.”

“Didn’t your parents nag you for forever as well, Ilsa?” commented Lucy, looking at her friend across the table, and Ilsa nodded.

“We had proper fights actually, my Mum and I. And still, I haven’t fully forgiven some of the bullshit she gave me,” said Ilsa. “It didn’t even make sense. My big brother, Max’s bestie, he has four kids no less. Four. And they’re still somewhat little, I think the youngest is about Adam’s age or so… And our sister has a boy, and I’m the youngest, so one would think with them having already satisfied her grandmother desires, I’d be more left alone...”

“And they still nagged you to get pregnant?” Vanessa frowned, not knowing the story. “What’s this thing of pushing women into motherhood, as if we had no other role? And I do want a kid but like, no need to push your own child to make you a grandparent, right?”

“That’s my Mum. I love her, but…” Ilsa nodded. “Sixteen years, she hasn’t left us alone a single day. First time she began making the odd insinuating comment was, and I’ll never forget, first time I went south to visit them after Nick and I returned from our honeymoon. He had work, I passed by for a weekend visit, I was twenty-five ‘cause we married young, and I was just chilling with my brother enjoying my coffee, my then only niece in my arms, and Mum goes ‘so, should we be booking Christmas travels or will you be too pregnant for big trips?’ I spat my coffee, I swear.”

“Jesus,” Vanessa’s jaw dropped and Robin’s eyebrows raised.

“That’s pressure,” George nodded.

“Ilsa’s Mum, Joyce, she’s truly a wonderful, tender woman, but she’s always been hard character with your brother, you and your sister, I remember,” Ted commented, nodding. “Bit like Joan. Good women, but a hard character, bit bossy.” In truth, she had been the hardest with Ilsa, in Strike’s opinion, but he might be biased.

“Indeed,” Nick nodded in agreement.

“At least your sister would get the same?” Max asked Ilsa.

“Nope,” Ilsa shook her head. “I asked her, I said whenever she starts let me know so I know it’s not just me, because it got to the point when I’d systematically avoid Cornwall, specially bringing Nick, because I don’t need them making my husband uncomfortable too. I mean when I passed by last year for poor Joan’s funeral, it had been roughly… three years without stepping there. Nick hasn’t been in longer, ‘cause he couldn’t come. But Maddie told her she was never nagged once, aside from a couple comments in all the years.”

“Gee, seriously? You beat my record,” Strike frowned. He had no idea his friends’ struggles had gotten that bad, and he felt a little guilty he’d been too stuck in his own problems to ask. As a matter of fact, his idea of the couple’s issues was very vague, embarrassingly enough.

“It’s just been impossible. And in the beginning we weren’t even trying, so we thought whatever, we’ll shut her up in a couple years with a baby,” Nick intervened into the conversation. “But then…” he blushed a little. “Well it became clear we had a problem, because it just wasn’t happening. We got tested, no fertility issues, so it was even weirder. Ilsa told her Mum thinking she’d empathise and stop nagging, understand we were suffering with it, but then we headed over one of Ilsa’s birthdays, and Joyce, in front of a table full of family, told us we just hadn’t tried had enough, and gifted Ilsa a weekend spa for couples. As if the problem was lack of romanticism or something.”

“Joyce did what?!” Strike, who knew the woman to be a lot like Joan, not for nothing they were long-time friends, found himself somewhat scandalised, and wished he’d had a proper home before, to invite his friends and have them open up like they did now. He realised how hard he’d been neglecting his friendship duties.

“Oh yeah, I’ve never shouted at her that bad,” Ilsa admitted. “And that was the last time we went.”

“But you went for Joan’s funeral, and then you’d just…” Strike gestured with his hand, awkwardly, and Ilsa snorted a laugh.

“Miscarried our first baby?”

“Well yes,” said Strike, and if anybody at the table was surprised they kept good poker faces, thankfully. “Didn’t you guys reconcile?”

“No,” said Ilsa. “I mean we don’t walk on eggshells ‘cause you know me, I leave confrontations for court, and besides the occasion was too sad for stupid stuff. And I was only there for a day and a half, had to return to work… and she has been over in London, we’ve talked over the phone… it wasn’t years without communication, I mean, so she’d kept asking now and then, asked why we weren’t coming, thankfully there’s always the work card which she absolutely hates, but then after we came from Joan’s funeral she did say she’d wish I’d come more often, and for once I told her the truth. I said, Mum I would, but my husband and I keep struggling with having a baby and we don’t need your crap, so either you stop it, or I’m not coming here unless someone I love dies, as was the case, and you’re not coming over to our house for longer than a fortnight because we can’t stand your shit any more.”

“You cursing in front of your mother…” Strike raised his eyebrows. “Really giving no more shits I see.”

“What did I have to lose? I was pissed off and a little drunk,” Ilsa shrugged it off. “But you can imagine how angry she got. And then somewhere in the exchange of shouting, I blurted out I’d just miscarried, if she cared so much to know. Then she got mortified enough to begin backing down and trying to apologize, but I told her to shut it, and we haven’t spoken much since. She wrote us an apology postcard for Christmas that I threw, ‘cause I was pregnant already but the anger remains, and she hasn’t brought up the topic again.”

“Shit I had no idea you guys had such a fallout,” Lucy frowned.

“Well but now you’re pregnant, she surely has to be happy at last, right?” inquired Oliver with a frown. They had all grown somewhat close through Vanessa, Robin, or Strike, so it wasn’t uncomfortable to discuss these topics at this stage of their friendship. After all, Ilsa and Robin had been bridesmaids at his wedding to Vanessa not too long ago.

“I didn’t even tell her,” admitted Ilsa with a thoughtful expression. “We told Nick’s parents over dinner ‘cause they’ve always been absolutely wonderful, then I told my siblings, who told my parents. And when my Mum called all excited, I told her as happy as I am, I don’t forget the pain she’s aggravated for a decade, and I didn’t feel like discussing the thing that had caused us to fight to begin with, and hung up. That was in… January, I think. And we haven’t spoken since. We did Easter with Nick’s family as per usual, I called my Dad to wish him a Happy Easter, my siblings… refused to talk with my Mum. It’s just odd, because I love her and I hate fighting with her, but she’s stubborn as hell, refuses to acknowledge she fucked up and apologise, and until she does I can’t force myself to not get pissed off just by the sound of her voice. And Nick’s pissed too, but he’s even more non-confrontational than me,” she added smiling tenderly at her husband, who snorted a laugh.

“It’s your family, I’m not intervening unless I absolutely have to. But you guys are going to have to solve it before our girl’s born so she can grow with two sets of grandparents, lucky girl.”

Ilsa groaned and they laughed in commiseration.

“Can I offer a toast?” Robin stood up and raised her glass. “To family, the given, and the chosen.”

“Couldn’t say it better!” Max grinned, and like the others, raised his glass.

That day, Adam and Jack both insisted on staying in the flat the night, and since Lucy gave her blessing, silently thankful to spend a night alone once they’d bid Ted farewell, the four spent the remaining day together, going to the park, showing the boys Camden Market, and ultimately playing board games at home. It was way more entertaining and fun than Strike expected, and yet when he tucked both boys in bed he couldn’t help releasing a sigh of relief, wondering how people did this with their own kids every single day of their lives.

He found Robin sitting up in bed, reading, and smiled small, silently thanking his lucky stars for giving him a chance to know Robin in every moment of the day and night, even when she removed her make-up, put on some old pyjamas, and was just reading with her hair in a messy bun. He sat on the bed, took off his leg, and got comfortable in his side of the bed, pressing a kiss to Robin’s hip as he closed his eyes with an arm over her thigh while she continued to read. He sighed contently when her fingers massaged his skull distractedly.

“Hey babe?” asked Strike after a few minutes of silence, when his thoughts weren’t quieting down.

“Mmm?”

“Did ya know Ilsa was struggling so much with her Mum?”

“I knew bits and pieces,” Robin admitted. “Heard some arguments on the phone when I lived with them too… but I thought things would be all right now that the pregnancy is here and going well.”

“I had no idea,” said Strike. “D’you think they didn’t tell me ‘cause they felt bad complaining about a mother to a man that lost his?”

“Perhaps,” Robin shrugged. “Wouldn’t be your fault though. They’re not really the type to speak of their problems much, they like to focus on the good stuff.”

“I should keep a closer eye on them. Should be a better friend,” said Strike, closing his eyes again. Robin put her book away and looked down at him with a small smile, before sliding down to lie in bed, facing him. Then, she turned the lamp off and caressed his cheek, admiring the length and darkness of his eyelashes, which was impressive.

“I think it’s always a good idea to seek to be the best version of ourselves, and give it to those we love most,” Robin reflected, and kissed his lips softly, feeling Strike smile against her mouth.

“You’re right…” he opened his eyes, and intertwined their fingers between them. “It’s funny, you know how when you’re little you see the stuff the older kids study and it seems so difficult and harsh, but then you reach that point when you’re older and realize it wasn’t so hard?”

Robin snorted a laugh and nodded.

“’Course.”

“I felt the same today. All my life running from the boys feeling I didn’t have what it took… and today, hanging together the four of us, it was so easy. Probably because of you, in all fairness…” she smiled. “But still. I liked it.”

“You’re a great uncle, Strike. It’s time you believe it.”

“With you I feel I could be anything,” Strike wrapped a tight arm around her and closed his eyes against the top of her head. “Goodnight, love.”

“Goodnight Strike,” she brought his hand to her lips and smiled content, closing her eyes.

A few hours later, when her eyes opened as she felt a gentle kick against her belly, and Robin saw Strike was asleep with Adam between them, snuggled into his side, she grinned. She didn’t know what she’d done, but sure thing, together, they could be anything.

  
  



	19. A royal business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter introduces a VIP case involving the Queen of England Elizabeth II and SIB General Sir Nick Carter, inspired by real criticism I’ve read about Sir Carter. That said, this is only an excuse to introduce an interesting storyline, and as I know very little of the military and I’m just a fanfic writer aficionada, it’s not aimed to hurt the reputation of Sir Carter, UK military, or the Queen, and nothing that is said here it’s implied to be truthful, it’s just play pretend for the sake of fiction. Likewise, as much as I’ve tried to be diligent with putting accurate information of SIB institutions and how an investigation should work, there will probably be many inaccuracies with this case in those things, but it still has to go in for what I’ve planned for the characters… so apologizes in advance, bear with me ‘cause it’s worth it ;)

**Chapter 19: A royal business.**

On a hot day of May, Strike was sitting at the office with a pile of paperwork while Robin had lunch with her parents, who had come over for a visit. He was in short sleeves, organizing a case he thought he could close if only he put together the evidence in front of him, when a rattle on his door made him look up. Pat hardly ever knocked.

“Yeah?” he inquired, loud enough to be heard through the door, and this one opened to show RMP SIB Lieutenant Graham Hardacre, who smirked at him. “Hardy! Come in!” Strike put away his papers and got up to hug his long time friend.

“What’s up mate?” Hardy grinned at him. He was dressed in his full uniform. “Robin’s not here today?”

“No, the family came over to visit and she’s joining them for lunch,” Strike offered him a seat. “Can I help you though?”

Hardy laughed, sitting down.

“Yes, bloody well.”

“Can I offer you a beer? Whiskey?”

“No thanks, I’m here on duty. I came to recruit you.”

“Recruit me?” Strike frowned, sitting on his chair. “Sorry Hardy you know I’m done with the Army…”

“It’s a manner of speaking,” Hardy looked tense, with bags under his eyes. “I don’t know who to trust, Oggy, I’m at odds… I didn’t know who else to go to.”

“What’s going on?” asked Strike with a frown, suddenly worried.

“Everything that I say here it’s top secret, all right? I understand if you’ve got to trust Robin, employees… but outside this office nothing.”

“You’ve got it, we’re discreet here, it’s in the contract.”

“There has been some discomfort lately in the SIB towards RMP Colonel Commandant General Sir Nick Carter.”

“The big boss?”

“Yes,” Hardy nodded. “The American military has been saying it for years, criticising his apparent lack of protection and respect towards subordinates, and some worrisome reports have begun to appear within the Royal Military Police too, from people you’d take seriously. They say Carter’s having complete disregard towards his subordinates, that he sends people out there to die, that there are riflemen sent without preparation into basically suicide missions as bait, like pawns, Oggy, just so that Carter can get easy victories at the cost of more lives. They also report he’s been avoiding risky situations by sending others to do things that are his job, refusing to visit troops, putting them in unnecessary risky situations…”

“I get it, but there’s always criticism towards bosses Hardy since when do you take this seriously?”

“Since I’ve begun to gather reports of people who claim Carter and his two next in commands are all abusing power and not doing their job right, and he’s using the support of his next in command, who he’s allegedly bribed, to hold onto power. And it’s not just me who’s been getting ear about things… Oggy, the Queen personally ordered me to investigate things behind Carter’s back, because the issues are becoming so loud that they’re threatening diplomatic relationships between the US and the UK, fracturing our RMP and SIB, and threatening the success of missions in Afghanistan and other foreign territory.”

“The Queen personally ordered you…?” Strike was astonished, and Hardy nodded nervously.

“She gave very specific orders. Figure out if any of this is true, get solid evidence of what the heck the bosses are doing good or bad, report to her, never let them know they’re being investigated. But I’ve been sent to the SIB Headquarters in Wiltshire, we moved from Edinburg a couple of weeks ago, I’m being proposed for a promotion… so the bosses have me under close inspection. The Queen knows, and she told me I could get any outside help if I would trust them with my life, but nobody else within the SIB because Carter has too high of an influence to make sure this would be independent and objective enough. She’s heard about me, seen my resume, knows I’m good and trusts me so… the only person I could think of is you. I know is asking big of you but… the Queen approves of you and she’d compensate us both greatly. If it turns out everybody is right, she’ll substitute Carter for somebody better, and his crap will be on the press as well as how great we did searching objective justice even if it meant going against the big fish, think what it’ll do to the agency. And if we don’t find anything bad, we’ll still be greatly compensated and nobody will ever know we did this.”

S trike leaned back in deep thought. This was big, this was no tiny little favour, a lot was at stake… but he trusted the Military, he had trusted the SIB, he needed to ensure it’s cleanliness, things well done, and if the reports were true, lives were at stake. And Hardy and him had always worked well together.

“All right, Hardy. Let’s do this, but we’re going to have to select our team carefully,” said Strike. “Robin, that’s a no-brainer. Tracey, we know people who understand the Army. And Sam Barclay, ex rifleman, he’s fit. Should we get anybody else within the SIB?”

“No, it needs to be as independent as possible,” said Hardy. “But we should have some expert in law, we’re likely to have to jump over some rules and we need to be able to identify anything remotely illegal Carter and his vultures might be up to. You and I know a lot about military law, but still, it’d be great to have someone in our corner, someone better specialised.”

“My best friend Ilsa, but she’s a criminal lawyer, she’s not military-specialised… still, is the only one I’d trust with my life, and she’s discreet. Giving birth next month, but she can still advise us.”

“Good enough for you, good enough for me.”

“What about intelligence? Why is the Queen hiring you instead of military intelligence?”

“I think she is afraid it could be nothing, and she’d gotten intelligence in it for nothing, when the MI5 has tons of terrorism stuff to deal with these days. Anyway, we put the team together, the Queen will reunite with us next week to explain us everything, give us the exact reports, then we organize together how we approach this. She wants it out of UK Institutions as much as possible, in case Carter has too much influence.”

“You got it, I’ll gather them all today.”

“Thank you, Stick. I owe you a big one.”

“You don’t owe me anything, don’t be silly. This is patriotism,” Strike half smiled. “Besides if Robin gets to infiltrate the SIB, it’ll be the best Christmas present in the world, ahead of time. She’ll squeal and all.” Hardy laughed, and Strike grinned. “What about a beer now? You look like you need one.”

“Please, yes.”

T hat afternoon, with Hardy back in Wiltshire and Robin back in the office, Strike texted Tracey and Sam to come into the inner office ASAP, and told Robin they had a new VIP mission.  With the three in the inner office, Strike explained to them what Hardy had told him, and everyone was albeit stunned, on board, happy to work the case. That meant it was up to Strike and Robin to find Ilsa so she too, could attend the meeting with the Queen the following week.

Robin called her friend to make sure she’d be alone at the office, but without revealing much more, and they got into the car, just the two of them, to visit Ilsa’s office for, they realized, the very first time.  The trip took them on a short drive to Fulham, as Ilsa had entered the Law Firm ‘Beckett & Associates Criminal Law’ shortly after graduating decades before, and had been escalating positions so much that now the firm was named ‘Beckett & Herbert Criminal Law’. It was a big firm of which Ilsa and her colleague Julie Beckett were the bosses for the past ten years, after Julie Beckett’s Dad and founder had retired, but that actually employed about a dozen of lawyers, some junior some senior, and a few interns as well.

The  riverside building they entered was at least ten storeys high and had a marble hall with an entrance desk and a receptionist. It was an offices’ building and they quickly spotted the sign ‘Beckett & Herbert Criminal Law’ indicating the seventh storey, so they got into the lift.

“Wow, bit luxurious, isn’t it?” Robin commented perplexed as she pressed the ‘7’ in the lift. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but this was better.

“Not too different from our office,” Strike shrugged. “Ilsa’s a great lawyer and they truly value her here. If on top of that they pay her like she deserves, it’s a win-win situation.”

“Totally.”

W hen the lift opened, for a moment Robin felt back in the offices of the Houses of Parliament, with the mix between old and new. Here, they were face to face with another receptionist.

“Uhm, Ilsa Herbert’s office?” asked Strike. “I’m Cormoran Strike, she was waiting for me.”

“Ah, right, Mr Strike! Yes, just down the corridor and to the right, her name’s on the door.”

“Excellent, thanks,” as they walked into a long marble corridor, not too lively at this hour of the afternoon, they passed a large area of desks and phones ringing, and turned right to a more isolated area that only contained two offices facing each other, one for ‘J.S. Beckett’ and another for ‘I.M. Herbert’. “I’m Herbert.” Strike joked underneath his breath.

Robin chuckled.

“What’s the M for then?”

“Morwen, it’s Cornish,” replied Strike, and Robin half smiled.

“I see none of our parents liked us much when they gave us middle names.”

Strike smirked and knocked on the old yet fancy wooden door. A murmur inside the office stopped.

“It’s open!” Ilsa shouted from inside, and Strike held the door open for Robin.

After her experience with lawyers for her divorce, Robin had seen her fair share of lawyers’ offices, and she was slightly comforted seeing the same things in Ilsa’s office. A large window, in her case with views to the Thames, a wall behind her desk covered in diplomas and acknowledgements, large bookshelves full of legal books as thick as her thigh, and a large oak desk with two comfortable cushioned chairs they sat on after Ilsa, engaged on her mobile on her comfortable desk chair behind her desk, smiled at them and motioned for them to sit.

Ilsa’s coat and umbrella hung from a wooden coat stand next to a large plant by the door,  her suit jacket on the back of her chair as she sat in a maternity dark green dress, and as she wrapped up her phone conversation, Robin found herself mystified looking around with curious eyes, the first time she entered so openly into her friend’s world. The only hints to Cornwall came from a large Land’s End painting by her desk, which was large, ‘L’ shaped, with mountains of neatly organised folders and papers in one side, keeping the corner for the computer turned off, with post-its under the screen next to a wooden pen holder full of elegant pens, a small plant,  and a small framed photograph of a much younger Nick, presumably shirtless at the beach judging by the sky background and the bare shoulders, laughing as Ilsa wrapped her arms around him from behind and kissed his cheek,  and the other side of the desk faced them, with three steaming mugs of tea already prepared for them.

“Okay love, see you tonight then. No I love you more,” Ilsa blushed, looking away as she spoke with, presumably, Nick. “Bye, you too.” She hung up and looked up at them, grinning and getting up to welcome them properly with hugs and kisses. “Well! Welcome to my kingdom. Sorry about the wait, that was Nick.”

“Phew, here I was hoping I wasn’t walking into something,” Strike joked, and Ilsa rolled eyes and half smiled.

“Ha, ha,” Ilsa deadpanned, and sipped from her tea. “So, what can I do for you?”

S he put the pen she’d been holding back into its holder and leaned back in her chair, her fingers intertwined around her belly as she looked more serious at them through her glasses.

“We have a top secret case we think we could use your assistance with, not all the time, just keep you on the loop and have you on standby in case we do explicitly need you at any point,” said Strike. Curious, Ilsa frowned slightly, her attention captured.

“All right…” Ilsa stood up, walked to her door, and locked it, returning to her chair and resuming her position, her legs crossed as she watched them attentively. Her long blonde and wavy hair was elegantly held in a semi up-do, and her make up was soft, her wedding band and engagement rings shinning with the remaining sunlight coming through the large windows, from which they could see Wandsworth Bridge.

“How much do you know of military law?”

“Well I have a Bachelor’s Degree of three years in Law and Criminology, a year of Legal Practice Course, plus a total of six extra years of education, training and specialisation, I know all there is to know about Criminology, Criminal Justice, Human Rights… and I can tell you there is no such a thing as military law. Is just the Law applied to the military, which surely I can do, I know enough about military institutions and I’ve got…” she pointed vaguely to her bookshelf. “A large Wikipedia in case I’ve forgotten bits, you could say. Why?”

“So if hypothetically,” said Strike, “say a top boss in the Army was, hypothetically, neglecting duties by refusing to attend duties that are dangerous or by recklessly sending soldiers to missions that are basically suicidal… hypothetically, I’m saying, it’d be against the law.”

Ilsa’s eyes narrowed and she leaned forward into her desk.

“That’s a very serious accusation,” she said. “If someone did that… they’d be in serious trouble, Corm. Hypothetically. What’s going on?” she asked, all serious.

“Remember my friend Hardy, SIB Lieutenant?” Strike asked, and Ilsa nodded. “He’s hired us in the name of the Queen.” Ilsa’s eyebrows raised.

“The Queen? As in Elizabeth II? Your Majesty the Queen?!” she whispered-shouted, her eyes widening.

“Unless we’ve changed queens recently without my knowledge,” Strike nodded. “She’s received reports that the SIB Colonel Commandant, which is the big boss, General Sir Nick Carter, hasn’t been doing his job right. Reports indicate he has a lack of concern with his subordinates’ safety, that he’s risk-averse, putting lives of riflemen at risk for no reason, stuff like that. We’re supposed to find out if there’s any truth to it, because the reports didn’t make much noise when they only came from the US Army, but now they’ve begun to arise in our military, and the Queen is deeply concerned there might be any truth to it and that Sir Carter and his next in command are abusing their positions of power, shutting down anybody who complains, manipulating inquires and investigations into the topic, which could damage our international relationships deeply, cost unnecessary military lives, and damage the Royal Military Police greatly. But because it’s just reports and rumours, she doesn’t want to have the MI5 or anything like that intervening, she wants a separate, independent investigation that cannot be influenced or pressured by institutions, and that happens as secretly as possible, without making noise. If we find nothing, no one will ever know but she will pay us greatly, and if we find enough to launch an official investigation against Carter and demote him… then it’ll be a reputation boost, as it’d have to come out. So she called Hardy, who’s been promoted and it’s in the SIB headquarters in Wiltshire, looking to have a bigger promotion, and who’s reputation is extraordinary, to get him to make a team of people he trust to conduct said investigation. Tracey, Sam, Robin and me. And we figured we’d need a legal advisor, you, if you’re in.”

“Wow,” Ilsa sipped from her tea, astonished. “Woah… for real?”

“For real,” Robin nodded. She’d been shocked too. “Obviously we understand your baby’s nearly here so it’d just be… come with us to the meeting next week with the Queen to hear first hand what’s going on, and then once you’re on the loop we could ask you whenever something comes up, as an advisor and counsellor because we don’t know it all about law and we might miss it if there’s something illegal going on, in spite of Cormoran and Hardy’s expertise. We don’t want to risk anything with something this big. But I mean to advise us we could just call you, you don’t need to be travelling or anything…”

“Of course,” Ilsa nodded. “And it’s top secret.”

“Yes,” Strike nodded too. “Knowing Nick and how discrete he is I guess you could tell him, but just him, being your husband, and he’d have to shut up.”

“Right,” Ilsa took a deep breath. “Okay then, let’s do this. Can’t really say no to the Queen, can I?” Strike chuckled.

“Not really. We’ll hire you as an agency’s subcontractor on paper, but we’ve decided with the team whatever the Queen gives us is paid equally between all of us, and we’ll discuss contract with the Queen. Obviously we’re doing stuff for our country but this is business and we need to put plates of food on the table every day.”

“Yes,” Ilsa smiled at them. “God, look at you, hired by the Queen. I’m so proud…”

“We’re nerve-wracked,” Robin sniggered. “Oh my God, us, meeting with the Queen. What if I say bugger by accident?”

“She’s not _that_ serious, she’ll laugh it off,” said Strike.

“D’you know her?” Robin asked, surprised.

“Of course, got a whole decoration ceremony when I still had two legs, and another later. She’s a serious woman, but also incredibly witty and humorous. She’s all right, better than others of her family. Anyway, meeting is on Monday, we’ll pick you up in Wandsworth at nine o’clock, okay? Wear something… like you’re going to court, but no necessarily a funeral. Jacket and skirt, or a long dress, not too sexy but feminine, you know the drill.”

“Yes, like I’m going to work.”

“Yeah, that’ll work,” Strike stood up. “Anyway, we won’t entertain you further. Thanks Ilsa.”

“No problem,” Ilsa got up. “Actually I was just going home, want to come for dinner and we tell Nick? He’ll be excited, and he’s making his classic tagliatelle with bacon tonight.”

“And there’s the magic word,” Robin laughed as Strike’s stomach growled. “Aw, my bacon boy,” she fondly squeezed his cheek and the three laughed, marching off.

T he detectives followed Ilsa’s Volkswagen to Wandsworth, and found a parking spot just in front of the house, while Ilsa parked in their driveway and waited for them at the door, a hand under her large belly and the keys in the other, she opened the door and Ricky and Ossie, the two family cats, rushed to rub her legs.

“Hello you pretty little men, did you miss me?” Ilsa held them both, giving them kisses, and walked ahead to the kitchen, good smells already in the air.

“There’s my gorgeous wifey and our little princess!” Strike and Robin exchanged a look as they heard Nick’s voice and a loud smooch before they entered the kitchen. Robin smiled and mouthed ‘how romantic’ while Strike pretended to gag. “And hi there you two!” Nick added, separating from his wife and greeting them.

“I’m going to go get my pyjamas on,” Ilsa kissed her husband’s cheek. Robin knew, because Ilsa had one confided her with the information, that she found Nick’s work attire of shirt and smart trousers, which he was wearing, a turn-on she always had to control herself with.

Half an hour later, the four sat at the table, girls in one side and boys in another, drinking and enjoying the delicious dinner Nick had made, telling him all about Hardy’s visit and the meeting with the Queen. Nick beamed for his friends and wife, fascinated and impressed.

“Look at that, you guys making it big! I hope this case is the utmost entertaining and satisfying for you!”

“Well it’s not a porn film,” Strike joked, and they laughed at him.

“And our little princess is meeting the queen before me, how jealous,” Nick added with a smile towards Ilsa’s belly in front of him, as if the baby could see through. Robin couldn’t help but blushing at his sweetness, even when it wasn’t directed towards her. He’d always been a sweet guy for all she knew, but seeing a daddy-to-be completely drooling after the unborn child warmed her heart.

“Look at that I think she’s saluting,” Ilsa pulled her t-shirt up a little and a tiny foot marked perfectly against her skin, making it swell.

“Oh my God!” Robin couldn’t help getting impressed. “Is that normal?”

“Like I said, she’s growing fast, already has little space,” Ilsa smiled, her finger caressing the foot that pressed against it.

“That has to hurt,” said Strike, eyes wide. He hadn’t been around his sister so much during her pregnancies to see these things. Nick was nearly literally drooling, and it wasn’t the first time he witnessed their daughter’s hellos.

“Not much there, when she goes for the liver and the diaphragm though…” Ilsa commented. “But hey, making a person hurts, labour hurts… women are badass.”

“Undoubtedly,” Nick murmured, seemingly in another cloud.

“Nick did you put on your balls this morning?” Strike joked, teasing him with an elbow, as he seemed transfixed.

“Hey! If you had kids, you’d understand. It’s been ten years in the making, I get to be emotional,” said Nick, and Ilsa beamed sweetly at him. Their happiness lit up the room.

“He teases you now but then he very well lets our nephews into our bed when they have a nightmare,” Robin commented. And Strike looked at her in betrayal, with false offence, while Ilsa and Nick made ‘ohhhh’ sounds at him to tease him.

“Only Adam! He’s the little one, Jack doesn’t do it. What else am I supposed to do with he comes at me with those tearful eyes and pouty lips in the middle of the night?”

“Look who’s softening!” Nick teased him, making them laugh.

“Anyway,” Strike rolled eyes, and took a long sip of his beer. “Have you guys decided on a name yet? Because you have a bit over a month and last I heard you were still between five names.”

“Oh he was listening!” Nick faked surprise to tease him further. “But yes, we’re pretty much set, although we have a backup in case we look at her and she doesn’t look her name. Should we tell them love?”

“I suppose, since they’re her godparents… We’re naming her Evelyn Meraud Herbert,” said Ilsa happily. “Nicknamed Eve, I suppose.”

“That’s beautiful, I’ve never heard Meraud before though, is that Cornish?” asked Robin curious, while Strike gave an approving nod.

“Yes, means ‘a profit from the sea’,” said Ilsa. “I’ve always loved it. And Nick loved Evelyn, which is Germanic, but convinced me because apparently they’re not sure whether it means ‘wished for’, or ‘water’, but either way, and particularly with the first possible meaning, it seems fitting. After all, we’re big sea people, our first kiss was on the beach, we spent most of our honeymoon in Icelandic beaches… but also we’ve been waiting for this baby for a decade, so…”

“With those meanings, I’m already very fond of the name, Evelyn Meraud is perfect,” Robin declared, squeezing her friend’s shoulder affectionately.

“It’s cute,” said Strike. “Easy to pronounce, and will please the Londoner family and the Cornish one.”

“Oh yeah, Mum always wanted to have a daughter and name her Evelyn,” said Nick, nodding. “She actually suggested the name, and I really liked it, and then we got this book of name meanings and that settled it. We wanted a name that said something, not just that sounded good, you know? It’s taken long enough, we want it to be as meaningful as possible.”

“She’s your daughter, it’s going to be meaningful no matter what,” said Strike in a sweet gesture.

“That is right,” Ilsa nodded with a small smile. “Gosh I can’t wait to meet her and yet at the same time, I don’t want this pregnancy to end, specially since it might as well be the last one, considering our history.”

“Hey don’t say that, what did I say to you last year?” Robin interjected.

“What?”

“I said if you got pregnant once you can do it again, and who was right, even when you stopped IVF?” Ilsa rolled eyes but smiled a little.

“You were.”

“And I say this little girl,” Robin leaned over her belly. “Evelyn, listen to your auntie. You’re going to be a big sister ‘cause I say so, capisci?” that made the others laugh.

“Thank you Robin, hopefully the universe will conspire in our favour again,” said Ilsa smiling sweetly at her.

“Careful what you wish for, or you’ll end up with ten kids,” Strike warned playfully. Nick pursed his lips and shrugged.

“I’d be happy with then kids, don’t you think it’s a beautiful number darling?”

“Absolutely,” Ilsa grinned. “Although maybe through surrogate because this vagina only does so much…”

W hen Robin and Strike finally left, Robin was cheerful, feeling so happy for her friends.

“I’m so happy for them,” she commented with a grin as they strolled towards her Land Rover, an arm intertwined with Strike’s. “Did you see how happy they are? How in love? Probably having sex every single night if Ilsa is comfortable enough with her belly. Did you see how Nick looked at her? I mean they’ve always been cheesy in love, but now he looks at her like he’s marvelled every single time that she’s having their baby. They’re adorable.”

S trike nodded in agreement, and eyed her raising an eyebrow.

“D’you want a baby?”

“You know I don’t,” Robin shook her head. “I’m just saying to see best friends have what they’ve been waiting for, for ten years, and talk about it like they’ve been doing after a decade of secrecy… isn’t it incredible? I feel so lucky to witness it, they have such a special journey…”

“You’re right,” Strike admitted. “Dinners at Nick and Ilsa’s will be different with Evelyn and her little siblings around, though,” he said as they strolled through the night. “Things will change.”

“But some things don’t. Friendships can remain even with kids, look at Ilsa’s mother and Joan… best of friends, weren’t they? And then you and Ilsa. Even with us not having kids, we’ll be uncle and aunt, godparents… and that kid will be a bit of two of our favourite people, no way we won’t love her.”

“Maybe you’re right. Hopefully,” they entered the Land Rover and Robin began driving. “So you’re really fine with no kids, right? I’m not imposing, it’s really your own decision too, right?”

Robin nodded, eyes on the road.

“Yes, I like my life the way it is. You, me, our little flat, our baby business and a ton of godchildren, nephews and nieces. I’m happy with it.”

Strike nodded, staring at her attentively, and hoping he’d always be the one to make her happy and give her everything she wanted, but that her desires would never be completely against his.  She wanted for their happiness to be like Nick and Ilsa’s, everlasting, even in the roughest days.

  
  



	20. A tricky mission

**Chapter 20: A tricky mission.**

Monday woke up rainy and cold for May, but again, this was London, and rain didn’t really have an agenda. After dressing their best and going over royal protocols one last time, Strike took his fanciest briefcase with their contract and fees for the Queen, and they got into his BMW. They picked up Tracey and Sam first, and then drove south to Wandsworth to get Ilsa. Hardy would go ahead and meet them there. After finding parking near St James’ Park, they strolled and found Hardy standing  by the Victoria Memorial  in his  military uniform, with his red beret, and Robin experienced a moment of abstraction as she admired how nicely he looked and wondered how Strike looked in it. Surely pretty fine. She had seen his red beret before it burned it the attic, and then Ted had brought another he’d apparently left in St Mawes, because it was slightly smaller, older, and didn’t fit him the same as he grew from twenty to thirty, but at least he had the souvenir, now in their apartment.

“Good morning everyone, I’m Lieutenant Graham Hardacre, I was at the party,” Hardy reminded Sam and Ilsa, in case they’d forgotten, with a big smile. “I see you’re all looking proper! Good! Then let’s go.”

Truly, they looked the finest Robin had seen them all at once. Strike and Sam, who were veterans, wore three-piece suits in dark colours, Strike’s dark blue and Sam’s black, and tie, and it was probably the first time Robin had seen her boyfriend with a vest, a picture sexier than she should be thinking seconds from meeting the Queen. They’d both made sure their beards looked extra neat, and done their best with their hair, with Strike having a haircut the day before. Tracey, Ilsa and herself all wore suit jackets, blouses and skirts, although Ilsa wore a dress underneath her suit jacket, because it was more comfortable with her pregnancy, and they all had heels of different acceptable heights, not too tall, and soft make-up and little jewellery. Seeing Tracey walk like a soldier alike the men, Robin was painfully aware of being the only civilian, with Ilsa, and the one with the lesser amount of merits and resume.

“Don’t worry,” Ilsa whispered to her as if reading her mind when they walked towards Buckingham Palace through onlooking tourists, “you’ll do fine. The Queen respects powerful women like you.”

“Thank you,” Robin whispered nervously.

They watched as Hardacre spoke with one of the guards and then they were guided into the palace to the astonished view of tourists, through a large central patio, and into the State Rooms, where Robin and Ilsa’s jaws dropped. The ceilings were high and beautifully decorated, with large spider lamps hanging from them illuminating red-carpeted rooms with golden and soft green walls filled with golden-framed paintings of Royalty and other important people and historic moments. The State Rooms were also full of elegant furniture, sculptures and decoration, and Robin and Ilsa couldn’t stop looking around as they followed the group inside.

After crossing many large, luxurious rooms, they finally entered a smaller one and Ilsa and Robin’s stomachs both jumped at the sight of Her Majesty the Queen Elizabeth II, in her classic suit and skirt with a hat, smiling at them as she shook Hardy’s hand and was introduced to the others.

“Your Majesty, I believe you’ve met my friend, Detective Cormoran Strike? He’s a former SIB Sergeant, served twelve years,” said Hardy proudly.

“Of course, Mr Strike, it’s been so long,” the Queen smiled, shaking his hand gently.

“Always a pleasure to meet you again,” said Strike with a polite smile, and regardless of whether he was being honest or exaggerating, Robin believed him. “Please, let me introduce you to the team I have reunited for your service, these are former SIB Lieutenant and colleague Mrs Tracey Chapman,” they shook hands and exchanged smiles, “served eighteen years and joined my agency recently, Lieutenant Hardacre and I worked extensively with her and she has our full trust. This is Mr Sam Barclay, he served as a rifleman for many years but he’s been in my agency for about three years now and he’s a formidable detective, although I met him in the Army and he was already exemplar.” Sam blushed and shook hands with the Queen too, exchanging pleasantries. “This is our legal advisor, Mrs Ilsa Herbert, one of the best criminal lawyers in the country for sure, and friend of mine since the crib pretty much,” Strike introduced with a smile, “she doesn’t work for us but she’s agreed to do so for this, so we can have the best legal counsel at all times during the investigation and make sure not to arise any problems with the institutions, make sure this is all secret.”

“Wise decision, a pleasure, Mrs Herbert,” said the Queen with a smile.

“I’m honoured, Your Majesty.”

“And finally, my business and life partner Ms Robin Ellacott,” said Strike, and Robin nervously offered a hand to be shaken. “Our agency wouldn’t be half as successful without her, we’ve worked together five years and I’d trust her with my life. I’d trust any of these people with my life, as a matter of fact, and I believe they’re some of the best in our field, which is why they’re in the team.”

“I’m sure it will be the right team then,” the Queen smiled at then. “Shall we sit, then?” she guided them to a long table, sitting alone in the single chair in one side and letting them occupy other seat in front of her, with Strike and Hardy directly in front, Robin and Ilsa at Strike’s left, and Tracey and Sam at Hardy’s right. An assistant filled them cups of tea and then they were left alone in the closed room. Each of them had a closed folder in front, next to their cups. “In each folder there are all the reports I have received of Sir Carter, bits of evidence we have so far, and all the information about him, his family, whereabouts, and same with Royal Military Police’s Provost Marshal and both her and Sir Carter’s assistants and direct subordinates. If you were to require more information you can request it to me from Lieutenant Hardacre. How are you planning to organize?”

“Mr Strike and I will lead the investigation,” said Hardacre, as he and Strike had discussed over beer when he’d first come to London, “but since it was your request that the investigation is as objective and independent from institutions as possible, we have decided Mr Strike’s team will deal with the actual investigation while I serve as a link with you, and provide any inside information they might need from the SIB or the RMP. Mr Strike and I have worked together many times, I have absolute trust in his capabilities, judgement and work ethic.”

“Very well, so what is your plan Mr Strike?” asked the Queen, turning to Strike.

“Well, first Ms Ellacott and I will spend a few days studying these documents in depth and figuring out whether we need any more information to begin with or we’re good for the time being,” said Strike, and explained the plan previously discussed with the others in private. “We will discuss with Mrs Herbert whether she has been able to see anything illegal or suspicious in here just from first looks, share opinions, then it’s likely the next step involves Ms Ellacott going undercover and infiltrating in Southwick House in the RMP Headquarters and getting some accounts, opinions and criticism of Sir Carter’s activity and behaviour first-hand, gather every evidence she can get. This will likely be a job of several days, but Ms Ellacott is excellent and experience with undercover operations, she’s already infiltrated the House of Parliament once, this won’t be too hard in comparison. And in case anything went wrong or she needed any support, we’ll keep Mrs Chapman ready to intervene with a good cover that’ll allow her to enter things shall Ms Ellacott be in danger or otherwise require it, as we don’t really know how dangerous this situation could be. Meanwhile, Mr Barclay and I will be gathering all the accounts and extra information we can, investigating all the criticism Sir Carter’s gotten in depth. Once Ms Ellacott returns with results, we’ll think of the next steps, but they’re likely to involve an in depth analysis of what we’ve all gathered, reunited with Mrs Herbert, the elaboration of a list with any actual crime Sir Carter or other RMP leaders might have committed, and then a deeper enquiry into each line of investigation that comes up. We could be investigating for several weeks, if not months, specially since it will all be done under top secrecy, which means the rest of my agency will also not be aware we’re doing this, and we’ll have to dissimulate and not completely disregard our other cases, even if this one takes priority, if we don’t want our other employees to start suspecting or clients leaving and the agency sinking, I hope you understand that, since it’ll inevitably take time from this investigation sometimes.”

T he Queen nodded slowly and took a sip from her tea.

“That’s all right. Personally, I do not expect you all to find anything remotely negative on Sir Carter, so I am not in a hurry, but I do consider when we receive these amounts of reports, it’s my responsibility as Colonel in Chief to make sure somebody at least looks into things. However if you do find something and require MI5 to investigate or any other institution, I will get them involved according to your professional judgement, in which I trust.”

“Absolutely Your Majesty,” said Hardy with a nod.

“And we are accustomed to reporting to our client updates weekly or sooner if we find bigger things, so in this case we’ll continuously tell Lieutenant Hardacre of any new information we gather, so you will always be up to date,” added Strike. “Ms Ellacott will also receive full training and preparation to infiltrate Southwick House, as her character requires.”

Robin, who had never seen him be the most remotely submissive or subordinated to anyone, not even Minister Chiswell, was surprised to see how he truly treated her like anybody else would, and not like equals, as he’d often treat any other snob.

“Excellent,” the Queen said satisfied. “I must say when Lieutenant Hardacre told me about each of you, I conducted my own research and was pleased with my findings. All of you have clean, neat records, great marks in school even. I was only surprised I couldn’t find anything of you, Ms Ellacott, after you dropped out of the University of Manchester in 2004 mid psychology degree,” Robin tried her best not to blush in embarrassment. She had imagined her insecurities would come up, and feared embarrassment in front of the Queen, that she’d think less of her. “You’re the youngest of the group, thirty years old now, and there’s close to no information about you, aside from some Temp Jobs as an assistant. So, since you’re taking the heavy weight going undercover, I’d like to know your resume from you, even though I’m not going to doubt you’re the right person for the job if Mr Strike says so.”

R obin cleared her throat and nodded, ears red. She figured she couldn’t lie to the Queen, could she?

“Your Majesty, truth is I went into psychology to become a forensic psychologist and be able to work for the police,” explained Robin. “I wanted investigative work, ideally. Anyway,” Strike, hating the situation she was in and hating he hadn’t foreseen it, covertly moved a hand under the table and squeezed Robin’s knee gently in silent support, “thing is near the end of my second year I uh… I was assaulted. Rape and attempted murder, I played dead to save myself… it was a guy who had raped several female students around campus, none of which could provide proper witness statements, but mine could and got him put away for life.”

“Oh,” the Queen got more serious, and nodded slowly. “Sorry to hear… although it’s remarkable you put him away.”

“Anyway, I would have continued my studies, I loved them but… I became severely agoraphobic and had to return to my home town in Masham, Yorkshire,” Robin explained quickly, Strike’s hand keeping her calm and collected. “I was there for a year, couldn’t leave my bedroom and was mentally unstable so I couldn’t return to my studies or work, and eventually when I could go out I did an advanced military driving course civilians could join, then a few self defence courses under Army Captain Louise Chaplain, she’s a decorated soldier.”

“Yes, I know her, one of the good ones,” the Queen nodded.

“Well, that was enough for me to go back into my life a little. I hoped to return to psychology but by then truth is I had sort of lost confidence in myself and given up on police dreams, so instead I took minor jobs in shops and stuff, eventually five years ago I followed my then fiancé to London and found temporary jobs as an assistant or secretary, as you saw. That’s how I met Mr Strike, he hired me five years ago to be his assistant, and then it was only us at the agency. And you know what my marriage didn’t work out, but the agency did, and Mr Strike hired me as a junior detective within a week, he’d asked me some minor tasks he needed a woman for, for the case, Lula Landry’s murder investigation, and I’d done a good job so he began to train me, paid me some surveillance courses and things like that for detective job. And I fell in love with the job,” Robin explained sincerely. “Ever since I’ve just been in the agency, it’s called ‘Strike & Ellacott Private Investigations’ now, even.”

“Ms Ellacott is being modest,” said Strike, intervening with a polite smile. “Your Majesty, if you want to know why I’d really trust Ms Ellacott to take such a heavy weight of this investigation on her shoulders, thing is she is an innate detective, and I say this as her colleague, personal relationship aside, I know how to be objective. You see, I have worked with a lot of people as an SIB, Lieutenant Hardacre, Mrs Chapman… all very talented people. But them and myself, weren’t at twenty-five, regardless of all our training, half as good as Ms Ellacott was with zero previous training. In her first job with me, with an assistant contract, I witnessed her invent two different characters out of the blue which she impersonated skilfully and impressively like the best of the actresses to acquire unique information I wouldn’t have acquired otherwise. She hasn’t finished her psychology degree but she’s always been avid to keep learning on her own and her psychology knowledge has been invaluable for the agency, she knows an incredible lot about it, and she’s used it to succeed time after time. She saved my life, on that first case, and then we went on to investigate writer Owen Quine’s murder, you might’ve seen it on the papers?”

“I remember, the Bombyx Mori author?”

“Yes, that one. Well Ms Ellacott single-handedly took half the load of investigation, and she ultimately tricked the killer and with her impressive driving skills drove her to Scotland Yard. There was a minor car accident involved because the killer attacked her in the car, but see, there was a good reason, and both made it out almost without a scratch,” said Strike smugly. “That’s when I began paying her courses actually, not previously, after two cases she’d iced on her own skills,” Robin blushed deeply, but the Queen sounded satisfied. “And then we took in the investigation of the Shacklewell Ripper, who had targeted Ms Ellacott, followed her around for months until we caught him, assaulted her and tried to kill her and she remains the only victim to have survived him because of her self defence skills and her brains, purely. In the three months that investigation lasted, Ms Ellacott not only tailed all of our three suspects, one of which was the actual killer, successfully keeping tabs of all of them taking turns with me, but also, not happy with just catching former soldier Donald Laing, for the poor salary I could then pay her and not caring a bit about money, doing things only because she has a strong sense of duty, of right and wrong, but also went above and beyond behind my back to catch a child rapist, former soldier Noel Brockbank. She confronted two soldiers then, won, both of them are in prison greatly because of her. And if that’s not enough to speak of her skills, I made her my business partner then, and we took the investigation of Minister Jasper Chiswell’s death, and previously he hired us for death threats he was receiving. Ms Ellacott alone went on two undercover operations, for the two months that investigation took us, one of which was pretending to be Chiswell’s god daughter working at the Houses of Parliament, where she placed hidden listening devices and did a remarkable job acquiring inside information, although both undercover jobs those months went amazingly. We had our first employees then, Mr Barclay for example, but Ms Ellacott and I still dealt with that investigation mainly alone, because of it being VIP as well. And at the end of it, Ms Ellacott was kidnapped by Chiswell’s murderer, who tried to kill her, and she saved herself using her wits and keeping him distracted, talking, while he was holding her at gunpoint, until me and the police figured out what was going on and where they were and could assist. If she hadn’t been so smart and great under pressure, she’d be dead. Most recently, she’s done a terrific job investigating the forty-year disappearance turned murder of Margot Bamborough, and when our agency exploded a few months ago after we suffered a personal attack, Ms Ellacott saved my life. We got trapped in the fire, I lost consciousness, and it was Ms Ellacott alone who dragged me out. After that, I figured she had enough credit under her belt to guarantee our business’ change of name.”

“That’s truly impressive,” said the Queen, nodding appreciatively. “You should sell yourself like that, Ms Ellacott. Women already have the world to sell us short.” Robin smiled timidly.

“I’m just someone who wants to make this world a little more just and find the truth,” said Robin with a shrug. “I do my best, and Mr Strike is a great teacher anyway.”

“Yeah well, she’s intelligent beyond belief, skilled, imaginative, exceptional under pressure and doesn’t need babysitting, and she’s better than many of the SIB I’ve worked with, with none of their exceptional training and experience, I’m pretty sure she’s about to add another success to her list, you have nothing to worry about, Your Majesty,” Strike reassured the Queen. “Every single person in this team is exceptional in their field, some of the best you’ll ever find, our investigation will be so solid no judge will be able to turn their back on it.”

“Fabulous,” the Queen smiled broadly. “Then let’s discuss terms of employment, right? To keep this as secret as possible, I’ll employ Mr Strike and we’ll clarify by contract how much each of you will receive.”

“I’ve already done it, Your Majesty,” Strike opened her briefcase and took the papers, handing them to the Queen. “My fees, and of the total you pay us, 13,5% will go to each, Mr Hardacre, Mrs Chapman, Mr Barclay, and Mrs Herbert. We have all agreed that the remaining 19% of the total will go to our agency, to divide equally between our remaining employees keep the agency afloat. If you were just any other client of the agency, everything would just go to the agency, but we’ve changed the contract considering this is a special top secret investigation involving people outside the agency and with added work due to having to secretly prioritise this investigation over others, which we don’t usually do, and behind our whole agency’s back, which is also a first. That’s why the fees are higher than usual, I believe Lieutenant Hardacre already consulted this with you?”

“Yes, this is all right,” the Queen nodded, reading the paperwork carefully. “Seems just, although… you and Ms Ellacott are not included in the division?”

“It’s our agency, we’ll gather our usual salary from the agency’s income,” said Robin simply.

“You’re rejecting a good sum of money.”

“As long as we make enough to keep our agency and our personal expenses going, Mr Strike and I don’t need more. Mrs Champan and Mr Barclay, however, will be putting extra hours of work than normally and behind their colleagues’ backs, and they’re our employees, so we figured they deserved as much of an extra pay on top of their monthly earnings as Mrs Herbert or Lieutenant Hardacre.”

The Queen smiled, nodding as she eyed them, as if valuing extra qualities she hadn’t thought of previously, and signed the paper.

  
  


  
  



	21. Challenge accepted

**Chapter 21: Challenge accepted.**

Three days later, it was hot and sweaty and Strike, Robin, Ilsa, Sam and Tracey, sat at the office’s meeting room pouring their brains over the documents the Queen had given them and sharing opinions. They had told the agency they were doing a personal favour counselling their lawyer friend with a case of hers, while she had told her firm she was doing Strike a personal favour counselling for a case of his, so nobody suspected.

“All right so,” Tracey rubbed her tired eyes. They’ve been over this three days, for several hours each, “we all agree there’s something dirty here, right? I mean look at these mission reports, Carter is underfunding missions severely, sending less soldiers and less equipment than he should, in consequence more people are dying than they should, not to mention some of his targets aren’t even… shouldn’t be targeted, they seem more like attempts to put personal medals on his chest, not logical objectives for the UK.”

“Agreed,” Strike nodded. “Ilsa?”

The lawyer puffed, leaned back on the sofa next to Robin, holding her folder over her belly.

“I see indication of unlawful behaviour,” said Ilsa. “This isn’t right, there are things here that are borderline illegal, but everything seems pretty… well, looks like someone’s made an awful good effort to keep things secret, discreetly. I’d need more.”

“Then let’s go ahead with the plan,” said Strike. “Robin, we’ll have to work on creating a charac—,”

Ilsa’s phone interrupted him and the lawyer looked apologetic as she grabbed her phone.

“Sorry, it’s my husband— I’ll just tell him I’ll call him later,” Ilsa answered real quick. “Nick honey I can’t—,” then her eyes widened and she paled. “What do you mean you’ve been arrested? What?” Robin and Strike turned to her so fast their necks nearly fractured. “I’m on my way.” She hung up and got up, gathering her things. “I’m sorry, I have to go—,”

“Ilsa, what’s happened to Nick?!” Robin stopped her, worried. Ilsa looked back at her, pale and distraught.

“He’s been arrested, they’re accusing him of manslaughter, murder by medical negligence, I have to go.”

“What?” Strike got up too, beginning to panic. Nick? Nick couldn’t be guilty of manslaughter, couldn’t be imprisoned. Nick wouldn’t be caught dead breaking the law. Nick was too good, too kind, too soft, too law-fearful, married to a criminal lawyer as he was, to commit a crime, ever. Not even a tiny one, let alone manslaughter. Robin locked eyes with him, wide with terror, and they seemed to think the same thing. “Ok change of plans Robin and I have to go with Ilsa, her husband’s one of our best friends… Sam, tell Hardy what we have and begin researching Carter, Tracey please research Southwick, see how we can get Robin in. We’ll do our homework as soon as we know what’s going on with Nick, I’m so sorry.”

“No problem, go, go!” Tracey hushed them, seeing the panic in the poor lawyer.

The three rushed out of the office, Robin telling Pat to cancel Strike and her’s appointments because of a family emergency, and then rushed to the street. Finding Ilsa’s car, Robin stopped her friend from getting in the driver’s seat, seeing how distraught she looked, and offered to drive instead, while Ilsa phoned their mutual friend DI Vanessa Ekwensi to figure out why the hell had Nick been arrested. All he knew was that they said a patient of his had died for his negligence, but he was confused, as he wasn’t aware of having done anything remotely wrong, let alone to cause a death. Unfortunately, the news were also a surprise to Vanessa, who promised to ask around and call back when she knew more.

Nick had been taken to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters in New Scotland Yard, and Robin drove them there with a tense expression, the three of them quiet and tense. If they didn’t get Nick out of trouble, he could be facing up to ten years in prison, community service, and even thousands of dozens of pounds in compensatory payments to the victim’s family, not to mention the loss of his license, his career and his reputation. There was too much at stake to not be tense.

At New Scotland Yard, Ilsa put on her lawyer’s costume by taking a few deep breaths and quickly organising her thoughts, knowing she had to be her best of her husband would be in very deep trouble.

“I’m Dr Nicholas Herbert’s lawyer, I believe he’s being held in custody,” Ilsa said professionally at the front desk. “I’m Mrs Ilsa Herbert, I have been called over.”

“All right, just a second Mrs,” the front desk officer typed in the computer for a few moments and then nodded, giving her the indications to the interrogation room where Nick was being held for questioning.

“We’ll wait for you here,” said Strike, well aware they couldn’t just barge in. “We’ll keep phoning contacts, somebody has to know more.”

“Okay,” Ilsa nodded and rushed inside.

Robin and Strike waited nervously for nearly two hours, and in that time at some point Vanessa Ekwensi joined them in the waiting, informing them that apparently a Crohn’s Disease patient of Nick’s had been found dead at home after abusing a corticosteroid called Prednisone, which had made her vulnerable to infections and provoked her a sepsis infection that had killed her overnight before anybody could know and help her, and she’d been found by her cleaner’s a couple hours before. After the police had dug around the house for any signs of murder, as the woman in question was only twenty-two, they had found a prescription signed by Nick, in which he apparently gave her a recklessly high dose of Prednisone that was far too high for any doctor in their right mind to give. Hence, Nick had been accused of medical negligence with a deathly consequence, which meant manslaughter.  The woman’s parents, who lived in Richmond and belonged to a powerful family of business people, were going to try and fry Nick all they could.

S trike regretted then that he had stopped smoking, because under that type of stress, he would happily smoke five fags at once, but his lungs were just beginning to feel normal lately.

After a long wait, Ilsa finally appeared, with glassy eyes, pale as a sheet, and looking as though she’d been hit in the head with a brick, so distraught she didn’t notice them until Robin put a hand on her shoulder.

“Ilsa, what happened?”

Ilsa looked around and pointed to the door.

“Not here, they’ll suspect seeing Vanessa with us,” she murmured, and they exited the station. They didn’t talk until they sat squeezed in a bench at the embankment, and Robin wrapped an arm around Ilsa’s shoulders, seeing she was shaking. They had given her a folder with photocopies of the evidence so she could build a case.

“So?” Strike asked, taking her hand in his.

“They arrested him at work, in front of everyone. They say he recklessly and irresponsibly committed a medical negligence by prescribing a dangerous dose of medication to a 22 year old patient who died last night and was found this morning,” Ilsa explained with a low voice, pale with fear.

“What evidence have they shown you?” said Strike. “Vanessa said it’s a prescription Nick wrote?”

“This,” Ilsa opened the folder and pulled out a small prescription paper from Nick’s hospital, identical to those he usually had, and in a handwriting very similar to his.

“So he did do it?” Strike frowned. “But that’s insane…”

“He didn’t do it. But the handwriting is so similar the Met expert said it’s the same with 99% chances, which is enough for court, and the signature too, so… they’ve closed the investigation and presented charges already, the family of the girl is very powerful in business and they want things wrapped up quickly,” explained Ilsa, completely crestfallen. “They’re taking Nick to the Wandsworth Prison tomorrow morning awaiting trial.”

“Shit,” Robin’s stomach fell to her feet. “Is there anything you can do Vanessa? Buy us more time?”

Vanessa, also pale, shook her head.

“If it was an ongoing investigation I could try to pull rank to lead it, but if the judge has already ordered the closing of the investigation and accepted to judge Nick, I can’t do anything to reopen it unless new evidence constitutes sufficient doubt to get the judge to reopen. It’s out of my hands. Ilsa, are you completely sure he didn’t do it? Perhaps it was an accident?”

“No, he didn’t do it. Nick was so… distraught, confused, he said he has never seen this prescription in his life, that somebody framed him, that he never wrote it. He told me he got the patient, Claire Fox is her name, just yesterday after the victim’s GP referred her to Nick. Apparently she had been dealing with her disease with a different gastroenterologist who just retired, so the GP, an old friend of Nick’s, suggested she’d start seeing him. He said he saw her yesterday and her disease was worsening and giving her a lot of pain and suffering, and insisted he’d give her higher doses, the one in the prescription that the police found, but that he refused precisely because he found it too dangerous, and gave her a different prescription then, one the police wasn’t able to find in the woman’s house, it’s like it doesn’t exist any more,” Ilsa took a deep breath and shook her head. “So it’s Nick’s word against a prescription he swears he didn’t write and the Met saying it’s 99% for sure written by him. He didn’t even know the patient so well, he wanted to get some tests done next week… and now he’s going to prison, how can I possibly…?” her eyes filled with tears and Robin squeezed her with one arm. “How am I going to defend him just with his word as evidence? That’s nothing in trial!” she sobbed, closing the folder and hugging herself.

“Ilsa, Ilsa! Stop thinking as Nick’s wife and start thinking as her lawyer,” Strike gave his friend some tough love, and cupped her face, getting her to look up to him and stop sobbing. “Ilsa, breathe and now, think as a lawyer, don’t panic, put emotional distance and think clearly. You have a client who’s being falsely accused of an accidental murder by negligence that you know he didn’t commit, and all the evidence is against him, but they don’t have much evidence either, just a prescription. You’ve been in these things before, remember Mrs Quine? She had more evidence against her and we got her out. Now, Ilsa, what do you need as a lawyer? What do we do?”

I lsa took a deep breath, blew her nose in a tissue Vanessa handed her, and sat quietly for a moment, in deep thought. Strike’s words seemed to have taken effect.

“If my client didn’t write the prescription then somebody else did, presumably a doctor, because they’d have to know about the medication, have access to the prescription type of paper… and if they imitated Nick’s handwriting so well, it has to be someone who knows him well. Then, I have to talk with the GP who referred the patient to my client, because they dated for a while.”

“Did they?” Vanessa’s eyebrows raised in surprise, and Ilsa nodded.

“Her name’s Jessica Biles... she and Nick met in med school and dated for a few years, even lived together. We had broken up for our studies and then we met again, already a doctor and a lawyer... and within a week we had broken up with our respective partners and were engaged to each other. Jessica was his,” said Ilsa. “I know she got furious... but after several years, she moved on, she had entered his same hospital, they were colleagues… Nick pressured her to build a decent relationship so that patients and colleagues wouldn’t feel uncomfortable working with them together.”

“She’d have access to the type of paper and knows his handwriting well enough,” Strike nodded. “All right, I will go to talk with her, Robin, could you take Ilsa home? You go home,” he turned to Ilsa, a hand on her back. “Call Julie, your partner. Have her take over the case.”

“What? No!”

“Ilsa,” Strike fixed his eyes on her, “you can’t be his lawyer if you’re also going to speak as witness, and you need to be called to testify as such, because if you do you can tell everyone that is not your husband’s handwriting, okay? To condemn him they have to prove beyond shadow of a doubt that he did it, but if you make them hesitate…”

“Then they can’t be sure,” Strike nodded, and Ilsa nodded slowly, the fog of worry in her mind clearing a little so she could think better. “You’re right. And Julie’s our friend, and a great lawyer, she’ll do a good job… and I’ll be free to testify.”

“Exactly. Now go home, prepare every bit you have where Nick’s handwriting is clear as day, recent if possible, it’ll hold better in court, to compare with this shit they’ve found.”

“And I’ll go back to work,” said Vanessa. “I’ll try to find more information, check on Nick whenever I can, and see if there’s anything else I can do for him.”

“Thanks, Vanessa,” Ilsa looked appreciatively.

“Let’s go Ilsa,” Robin wrapped her arm around her. “Let’s get you home. I’ll help you find evidence, we’re going to get him out of there.”

  
  



	22. Bring me the night that brings me to you

** C hapter 22: Bring me the night that brings me to you. **

Hours later, Robin was in Wandsworth, at Nick and Ilsa’s house. They had dug up a bunch of documents, receipts and notes Nick had signed or written in the last year, many of which were little notes that romantically enough, Nick and Ilsa left each other constantly around the house to remind the other that they loved them and thought of them on days when work would keep them apart. After that, Ilsa had had a nervous breakdown thinking of how poor Nick couldn’t be in prison ‘they’ll kill him Robin, they always go after the soft ones!’ and now she had fallen asleep on the sofa, wet tears still on her cheeks and a glass of red wine half drunk on the coffee table.

Robin watched her silently, holding her own glass of red wine  after having tucked a blanket over her friend, and filled with indescribable sadness and worry. She had no doubt they would somehow get Nick out, they would figure out who had really given the young victim the prescription she had tried to get Nick to give her, they would do like they had done with Owen Quine, they’d bring justice. But would that be before Evelyn was born? Before Nick was beaten up by prisoners who saw him as weak and inferior because of his gentleness and softness? Before Nick’s entire reputation was irreparably damaged and trashed?  Before Ilsa lost her royal mind with sadness,  stress, anxiety and anguish?

T hey had phoned Julie Beckett, Ilsa’s business partner, but she was in court all day and they had only managed to tell her, in the moment she could answer the phone, that there was an emergency and she had to come as soon as she could. Now it was nearly dinner time, and Robin hoped she and Strike would come back soon.

As if they had heard her thoughts, the doorbell ran. Robin threw one last look at Ilsa, who held her belly in her sleep, with one cat cuddled in the crook of her knees, and rushed to the entry door, seeing through the peephole that it was Julie Beckett, she assumed. She opened the door.

“Hello,” said Robin, unsure. The tall brunette with deep green eyes looked at her in mirrored confusion, dressed similarly to Ilsa when she worked. Robin knew they weren’t just partners, but also besties, like she and Strike had been before dating, only that they were both married to different people.

“Sorry, isn’t this the Herberts’ house?” the woman asked politely.

“Yes, you must be Julie?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Robin Ellacott,” Robin offered a hand, and she shook it. “I’m one of their best friends and the partner of their friend Cormoran Strike, I don’t know if you know him…” she explained, moving to let her in.

“Corm? Sure! You’re his partner? Oh, you’re a detective!”

“Yes, I am. Also his girlfriend,” Robin closed the door. “Come in, we’re waiting for Cormoran, he went to interview somebody who might help… Ilsa’s fallen asleep on the sofa, but I’ll wake her up. She’s just really distressed, truly.”

“Distressed? But what’s happening?” Julie turned, confused. “Where’s Nick?”

“That’s why we called you. Nick was arrested today and charged with manslaughter, the police found a new patient of his, a young woman, dead and a prescription in his house with a handwriting the police is 99% sure belongs to Nick, according to some expert, of a medication in abusive quantities, enough to provoke her side effects that killed her, according to the preliminary results of the autopsy. They’re taking him to Wandsworth Prison tomorrow, but he swears he never wrote that prescription.”

“Shit…” Julie paled, moving a hand to her mouth. “Shit! Oh, Ilsa…” she rushed inside with Robin and they walked over to the sitting room. Ilsa was waking up on her own, sleepy.

“Nick?” she murmured, eyes half closed.

“It’s just me, sweetie,” Julie rushed to her and hugged her, sitting with her. “Robin told me everything. Shit Ilsa… how are you?”

“I don’t know how to get him out,” Ilsa murmured, ashen with pain, her eyes completely empty, wrapping the blanket she’d had, around herself. “The police have closed the investigation already, the victim’s family is very powerful, they’re pressuring for things to be done quickly… and they’ve left me with near no evidence. I promised him we’d get him out, but it’s our word that he didn’t write that, against the Met… Corm’s gone to talk with Nick’s ex, the doctor. She’s the GP who referred the victim to him, hopefully something useful came out of that. Has he called you, Robin?”

“No,” Robin walked over to sit on the other side of Ilsa, next to the sleeping Ossie. Ricky, his feline brother, observed from behind the turned off TV. “But that means he’s busy with it, and if he’s still on it, that means she’s talking, right?

Ilsa nodded slowly, and released a deep sigh before wincing in pain and gasping, a hand flying to her belly.

“Are you okay?” asked Julie with concern.

“It’s the baby, she knows I’m upset and kicks pretty hard…” Ilsa released a deep breath, rubbing her belly. “I need you to be Nick’s lawyer so I can be called as a witness to testify. We have evidence of Nick’s handwriting to compare and hopefully that’ll elicit enough doubt to reopen the investigation or delay a sentence…”

“Okay, then I need to study the case,” said Julie, and Ilsa pointed to the folder on the coffee table next to her wine. She shouldn’t be drinking, but she had only taken one long sip to comfort herself and she wasn’t planning on taking another. It was one sip in forty weeks of pregnancy, once she reached the end of it, so Ilsa told herself it wouldn’t hurt. While Julie occupied herself reading and finishing Ilsa’s glass of wine, Ilsa leaned into Robin, who put her glass down and held her with both arms.

“I’m so sorry I’m occupying you and Oggy when you have such important cases going on…” said Ilsa apologetically, closing her eyes in Robin’s embrace. Robin pressed her lips against the top of her head.

“Don’t you worry, you and Nick are our family, we’d do anything for you any given day. Work can wait.”

The front door opened and closed and they heard the slight limping of Strike’s heavy figure moving, along with more brisk footsteps, and soon, Strike, Vanessa and DI Eric Wardle appeared at the door of the sitting room. Ilsa sat up immediately.

“Please tell me you got something good,” said Ilsa pleadingly.

After appropriate introductions, new glasses of beer, and sitting down between the two small sofas, they caught up. Wardle had managed to get the lead on the case after hearing from Strike what had happened, and was going to dig a bit more under the table, try to find more. Vanessa had spoken with Nick, encouraged and comforted him, reassuring him they were all doing everything to get him back home, but for now he had given her his ring, wallet and watch so he’d give them to Ilsa instead of having the prison staff confiscate them. Ilsa slid her husband’s wedding bad into her necklace chain that she sometimes wore, and listened as Strike explained how he had gone with Eric to meet Dr Jessica Biles, which had taken a long time, because they’d had to wait until she finished with her patients for the afternoon, as her consult was too full to spare ten minutes to talk with the police.

“She was moderately shocked about Nick’s arrest, apparently their entire hospital knows by now and although nobody can really believe it, which is good,” was explaining Wardle, “they also trust the police. The NHS has launched a separate investigation on Nick anyway, they want to make sure there are no other stains in his record, specially considering now they have to give all his patients another doctor. Dr Biles told us she was very upset to hear about the death of the patient, Claire Fox, that she had been her patient for years and thought Nick would be perfect to continue treating her permanently for her Crohn’s.”

“We couldn’t just accuse her of setting Nick up without proof, but we could insinuate in trial that some doctor of the many that knew Nick well could’ve done the prescription, you know, elicit doubt,” said Strike.

“We also went to speak with the previous gastroenterologist who attended Miss Fox,” added Wardle. “He’s retired, but he was willing to attend us. He says he hasn’t had any contact with the patient since, that he had heard only good things of Nick’s reputation, and it’s hard for him to believe such an experience doctor would make such a silly mistake.”

“So we don’t really have any more evidence, nobody had a motive…” Ilsa puffed, supporting her forehead on her palms.

Julie sighed, putting the documents down, and put a hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“Ilsa, I know you don’t like this, but if Nick confesses— I know he’s innocent! But listen, he could be facing ten years in prison, whereas if he says he did it, that it was an accident, he apologizes deeply, he says he must’ve been really tired, was thinking of one number and wrote the other in the dose, a silly mistake he’s deeply and profoundly sorry,” said Julie. “It could be left in two years, perhaps some community service and an economic compensation, and you’ve got him back in time to meet his daughter.”

“No!” Ilsa shook her head. “No, Julie, no, my husband is not going to admit to doing something he hasn’t done, specially when that would mean letting free someone who’s having fun having people killed elaborating false prescriptions. Julie, if Nick’s sentenced guilty, it doesn’t matter if it’s six months or ten years, his life is ruined, do you hear me? He’ll lose his reputation, his career, his license to practise medicine, all he’s ever wanted professionally, part of his identity! He’ll miss the birth of his one child he’s been waiting for forever, the respect of his colleagues, patients and the medical community, possibly appear on TV and have our own neighbours reject him and mistreat him… it can’t happen. It just can’t.”

“All right,” Julie took a deep breath. “Then this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to put our every effort into making the judge and jury not be completely sure. We’re going to present them with a decent, good doctor, wonderful man, with an impeccable record, with a history of very satisfied patients some of which I’m sure are probably also Crohn’s patients, given he’s a gastroenterologist. We’re going to sell the story of a poor flawless doctor who just wants to help, who’s a loving husband and about to be a father, who swears he never wrote that prescription and has no reason to do so, we’re going to ask the jury questions like ‘why would Mr Herbert write the right prescription in the patient’s record in the computer, swear he gave that one to her, and then write her a deathly one he knew the police would find if something went wrong?’. We’re going to make them see Nick’s a wonderful man, so much it becomes impossible for them to believe he could’ve done this, and then we’re going to insinuate how easily it would’ve been for any other doctor to do this. Nick will tell them how much the patient wanted the doses that killed him, how he argued with her because he refused to agree, how she might’ve found somebody else who’d do it and, because Nick was her doctor, used the handwriting of the prescription he did write and that went missing to imitate it and make the prescription the patient wanted, perhaps the patient bribed another doctor or a nurse to do it. Or did it herself, surely you can get that type of paper many ways. And you will tell them how sure you are that is not your husband’s handwriting, we will even find another handwriting analyser to back us up. And with a bit of luck the jury will see it can be doubted that Nick committed such crime, and it’s possible the victim or somebody else did it, it’s a simple matter of falsifying documentation, which a lot of people could easily do. We’ll show them you can’t just ruin a respectable doctor, father and husband’s life based simply on some so-called expert claiming he wrote something he didn’t write. It’s not the best, but… I think it might work.”

“Sounds okay…” Ilsa took a deep breath. “I should be calling Nick’s parents and brother before this comes up on the TV or the papers.”

“I should go home,” said Vanessa sadly, but evidently knackered. “Ilsa, try not to worry too much, okay? Wandsworth’s not too bad of a prison for him to be in the meantime until trial, and we’ll do everything we can to help, just try to keep a positive mind at least for that little girl. And anything you need, just call.”

“Thanks Van,” Ilsa nodded, emotionally knackered.

“I’ll go with you, I’m going to get up early to study this in depth,” said Julie, and she looked sadly at Ilsa, squeezing her hand. “Try to get some sleep, and call me if you need anything, you can crash at my place even or anything you need, okay? Should I expect you at the office tomorrow? You could take your maternity leave already, it’s only weeks until the baby comes…”

“No, I need to work, if I sit here waiting doing nothing I’ll lose my mind,” said Ilsa. “Might be a little late though, gotta try and squeeze a visit to Nick… but thanks, Julie.”

“No problem…”

“Then I’ll nip off with the ladies,” said Wardle, also getting up. “I’ll see what I can do for Nick. Ilsa, anything you need…”

“Thanks Eric,” Ilsa nodded appreciatively.

Wardle patted Strike’s shoulder and he, Vanessa and Julie left.

Strike, Robin and Ilsa sat taciturn, each thinking of the same thing; Nick sleeping on a wooden bench of a little cell in New Scotland Yard before being moved in the morning to a category B prison popular for being the one where Martin Luther King’s killer was initially confined, as well as Oscar Wilde or Julian Assange, now filled with men convicted for crimes such as assault, fraud, sex offence, robbery, lower degrees of murder and manslaughter, and organised crime. They knew it was no place for Nick, who unlike Strike, had led a life as far from violence as possible, focused on helping others and taking care of people’s health and well being instead of causing any remote harm. At least, he was fit, tall and healthy, and perhaps, they hoped, he could protect himself against other i n mates.

S trike looked over at Ilsa. He didn’t remember a time in their lives when he had seen her looking so taciturn, so miserable and sad. She was holding her belly as if trying to comfort Evelyn, and as she phoned Nick’s parents, Graham and Lauren Herbert, and his little brother, Spanner, or ‘Dan’ as Ilsa called him. Her voice already sounded weak and depressed as she gave the little explanations she could give, reassured them best she could, and then she stopped, eyeing her phone, and Strike knew she was thinking whether he should be calling her mother. At last, she decided against it, and Strike saw her elaborate a long text to ‘Maddie’. He knew Ilsa’s family like he knew his own, living two streets from his uncle and aunt in St Mawes. 

There were her parents, Joyce,  the geography teacher of the little school they’d attended in their childhood , and David Waterstone,  who was the owner of Strike’s local, The Victory Inn, and bartended there. The two had three children of which Ilsa was the youngest. James or ‘Jamie’ was the eldest, the first to marry, Max’s friend and, like him, now either forty-six or about to turn them, with four kids. He also worked at the pub. Then there was Madeleine, or ‘Maddie’, who was three years younger than Jamie and two older than Ilsa, and who even though Strike knew the three siblings had always been close, was pretty much in best friends level with Ilsa. She, Strike remembered, had been the cool kid to learn to drive and pick them up in her motorbike before any of them could learn to drive, when he’d come over for the holidays, and she had been a rebel, to them become a successful counsellor part-time photographer living in Reading with her husband, a man she’d married years after Ilsa married Nick, and with whom she had a five year old son. They didn’t see each other so much any more, but Strike had a feeling that Ilsa had turned to her counsellor sister throughout her pregnancy problems and miscarriage, and that Maddie had never failed her baby sister.

A t last, Ilsa put her phone down, and when she spoke, her voice sounded scarily weak.

“You guys should go home too, you have important work to do and you have done everything you could for Nick and I.”

“What if we make you some dinner first, uh?” Robin suggested. “We’ll eat together, make you some company.”

“You can cook yourselves whatever… I think I’ll just head to bed…”

“Nonsense, you’re pregnant, you need to eat,” Strike got up. “I’ll take care of it.”

Strike went to the kitchen and Ilsa leaned back, sniffled and rubbed the tears off her eyes, putting down her glasses for a moment. Robin sighed, taking her hand in hers.

“We’ll right all these wrongs, Ilsa. We’ll fix his reputation, get his job and his life back… promise.”

Ilsa’s light green-blue eyes eyed her, insecure.

“What if we can’t? That prison’s been in shortage of personnel, underfunded, and filled with addicts for ages...”

“We will do it,” said Robin firmly. “Nick is family, he’s your husband, Evelyn’s Dad, our like… like a brother to us. There is no way we are letting him root in prison when he is innocent and we all know it.”

The lawyer managed a small, sad smile, pressing her lips together, and nodded slowly.

“Yes… we’re not giving up.”

Nobody ate much during dinner, and Ilsa went to bed relatively quickly, leaving Strike and Robin at the table, tired and saddened.

For the first time all day, Robin looked up to really see Strike. The lines of his face were more pronounced now, his frown nearly permanent, and he looked disgruntled and meditative. The way he looked seemed, in her eyes, to define how she felt inside, and still, she felt an immediate wave of affection towards him, mixed with concern, knowing it was important that all of them stayed level-headed and kept their mental health in check, which made her reach out to hold his hand over the table. He squeezed hers in return and sighed, forcing a little smile.

“D’you think we should stay the night?” murmured Robin. “I don’t like the idea of leaving her like this…”

“Me neither, but we should clean up and go,” said Strike with a shrug. “Give her some space to regroup, see her tomorrow. Ilsa’s one of the toughest women I know, she just needs a moment to break so she can get back up stronger.”

“Yeah… I just can’t help to worry this is going to accelerate the labour, and she still has three weeks to go,” Robin frowned lightly.

“We’ll do what we can.”

They did the dishes, cleaned around, poured one of Nick’s famous health boost juices from the fridge in a glass, and quietly brought it up to the master bedroom. While Robin watched from the threshold into the dark room, illuminated by the little light from the corridor, Strike quietly limped inside, and left the glass on the nightside cabinet next to Ilsa, who’s back was turned to them as she slept hugging one of the many pillows. The glass sat then between her glasses and a small framed photograph that Robin guessed belonged to much happier times, back when Ilsa and Nick were teenagers in love, judging by how young and in love they seemed beaming into the camera, young enough that Nick’s hair wasn’t receding yet and a small blonde lock fell over his forehead.

Robin saw Strike tug the duvet up and tuck it better over Ilsa’s shape, and felt another wave of affection towards him, as she always did when she saw a man as large and physically strong as him do delicate and gentle things.

“Sweet dreams,” Robin heard Strike murmur before pressing a kiss against the top of Ilsa’s head. Ilsa didn’t move and her breathing remained deep and slow, probably used to Nick coming in the strange hours of the night after work and doing the same thing, to the point that she could sleep through it, and then Strike walked outside and gently left the door ajar so that the cats could come in and out, as one of them was already on the marital bed, taking Robin’s hand guiding her back down the stairs to return home, where Robin would massage his hurting stump, and they’d snuggle in bed until any of them would manage to fall asleep, but both their minds would continue to drift towards their imprisoned best friend.

  
  



	23. Survival efforts

**Chapter 23: Survival efforts.**

The next night over dinner in Wandsworth, Nick called from prison, as he’d been granted his first call, and Ilsa put her mobile on speaker so that the three could speak with him. He didn’t sound too bad, and he definitely tried to sound better than he probably felt to reassure his wife, trying to speak only of nice things from the prison ‘the uniform’s comfortable, and we have a little window that’s nice!’ so that he wouldn’t have to tell Ilsa the bad stuff that would cause her nightmares.

Over the next few days, they worked relentlessly to try to help, but truth was Strike and Robin’s work at the agency was accumulating, cases piling, unattended, not to mention the very important royal case, just like Ilsa had work to do at the firm. So more and more they had to rely and trust on Julie and Eric to do their jobs right, as theirs were actually to keep Nick safe and out of prison as soon as possible, as Eric tried to get another suspect that would be strong enough to send Nick home at least until trial.

Tracey, Sam, Robin and Strike came up with a character for Robin to morph into before sending her to Southwick House ninety miles away to do undercover operations for the royal case. She would be a psychology counsellor for RMP offices, with false credentials Hardy had given her, and Tracey would travel as well, to be there ready to help out when needed, so both women would be sharing a small flat they had rented in Southwick. Strike travelled with them for the first trip, and experienced with deep unease the first enforced separation from Robin work had ever given them, for an indefinite amount of time. Like Nick in prison who was only allowed two calls a week and one visit on Thursday mornings, Robin wouldn’t be able to call much, which made him empathise a little further with Ilsa.

Of course, it also meant Tracey had to separate from her husband and children for a little while, but she was more used to it, having been in the SIB, and took it lightly. Robin made light of every awful situation.

“Make sure to call me if there are any developments with Nick, and check on Ilsa daily,” Robin said as she and Strike hugged goodbye the first morning in Southwick, before Robin had to go to her first day of work undercover and Strike, return to London.

“I will, but you have to call me if anything goes remotely south. If you’re not safe, if you get any odd hunches…”

“I’ll be fine,” Robin smiled confidently and kissed him softly, which ruptured Strike’s line of worried thoughts as she had surely been intending, leaving her dumbfounded. “I love you.”

“I love you more,” Strike kissed her again.

“Not possible.”

“Try me.”

Robin snorted and stared at him with a small smile, a hand on the nape of his neck playing with the little hairs there.

“We will be all right,” she reassured him, “I will focus on helping the RMP, but you have to focus on our agency and Ilsa, please. Two weeks until due date now, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

With a puff, Strike nodded, slowly.

“I’ll take care of her and Evelyn, and Spanner told me he and his parents have been seeing her now and then, and calling daily. They’re hoping to be allowed to see Nick next week,” Strike sighed. “And Maddie called me, she’s coming over to visit Ilsa this weekend, so she’s going to be in good company.”

“Well, I hope if the family starts coming over, you remember to keep an eye on Joyce then, if she’s as bad as Ilsa said. Last thing Ilsa needs is her mother saying shit.”

“I know…” Strike nodded, as his forehead pressed against hers as they stood in the small hallway of the rented flat. Tracey was tactfully waiting in the car to drive Robin to Southwick House. “Al texted me, apparently Jonny is critical in hospital. Why does it all have to happen at once?”

Releasing a long sigh, Robin shrugged.

“I don’t know. Will you be okay then?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m meeting Al for lunch, will tell him what’s going on so that he understands I’m already in over my head, can’t pay attention to some father dying,” then he snorted a laugh. “Father, imagine that.”

Robin rolled eyes but smiling.

“Keep your mouth carefully under control with Al, last we need is your brother fighting with you now.”

“Step brother.”

“See that’s why Al doesn’t call you more often,” she teased him.

“Thank God,” he replied, and they sniggered together before kissing again. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too. Keep an eye on Luce too?”

Strike rolled eyes but nodded.

“Keep an eye on Ilsa, keep an eye on Evelyn, keep an eye on Nick, keep an eye on the agency, keep an eye on Lucy, keep an eye on Al. Good thing I’ve got exactly six eyes,” Strike joked darkly, and Robin grinned, kissing him again.

“You do your job right, and I will compensate you…” Robin’s hand moved to his arse, giving it a gentle squeeze that made him growl. “Generously when I come back.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively, and his eyes darkened.

“Yes my lady,” he kissed her cheek, and finally pulled apart. “Ok, go, nobody can see us leaving together, people know me here.”

“Talk to you ASAP!” Robin waved and left quickly, before she could regret anything.

Strike waited half an hour, adjusted his scarf to cover most of his face, and left the flat, locking the door after himself before finding his BMW two streets away and beginning his over two hour drive to London, first stop, the agency in Baker Street.  After being stuck in traffic for an extra hour, Strike looked forward to being outside the car, tailing suspects and writing files at the office, and time passed fast until he was forced to go meet Al for lunch at the River Cafe, which his step-brother liked.

Al looked somewhat different from the last time they’d meet. He was more tired, slimmer, the bags under his eyes more prominent, his smile reached his eyes just a little less. Strike felt compelled to give him a quick hug before sitting across him.

“I take things are not going well?” asked Strike sombrely as he took a sip of his beer.

With a deep sigh, Al shrugged.

“Dad’s going to die,” he said in a low voice. “It should’ve happened over winter, but he’s pushing, holding on… I think it’ll happen in the summer. Are you sure you don’t want to meet him?”

“Al, listen… even if I wanted, my life is a fucking mess right now,” Strike said softly. “Look, is not a competition of who has it worse or a pity party, I only explain so you can understand if I’m not more attentive with you is not lack of empathy. I feel bad for you, I hate to see you suffer… but Lucy – the sister I grew up with and I’m closest with, she lost her husband and thirteen-year-old son at a tragic car crash three months ago, because Charlotte wanted her dead.”

“Charlotte what?” Al had to do a visible effort not to raise his voice from the shock and surprise.

“It’s going on the papers next week, it’s when her trial is,” Strike sighed deeply. “She wanted revenge on me because one, she’s a psychopath and she’s really lost any bit of reason she had left, and two, she thinks me refusing all contact with her is enough to want to hurt me deeply. She plotted to kill us hiring someone for the IEDs in the office, Al, she wanted Robin dead more specifically because she knows she’s important to me, then he wanted my sister and three nephews dead to hurt me, and my brother-in-law and eldest nephew ended up dead. Robin and I have had to spend a month at my sister’s helping her heal from her bad injuries, her sons recover from other sets of injuries, and then heal emotionally and get back on their feet, quite literally because Lucy’s knee was broken and she’s was on crutches for nearly two months, she still has a bit of a limp.”

“Fuck…” Al was so shocked he’d forgotten his wine and Strike found himself surprisingly comforted by venting to his little step-brother. “Fuck, bruv, I had no idea, I’m so sorry… are the boys all right? Lucy…?”

“They’re in therapy, now the boys are going to be on holiday soon, so… but they’re holding up, we check on them daily. But then, d’you remember Nick and Ilsa Herbert?”

“The doctor and the lawyer, your friends?” Al nodded.

“Ilsa’s my oldest female friend, my aunt in Cornwall and her mother were schoolmates and nearly neighbours in our village, and Ilsa and I were born only two months apart and grew up together, whenever I was in St Mawes, so she’s like… she’s my sister, pretty much. She’s done everything she could for me, for forty years, Al. And she went on to marry Nick, my best friend from the comprehensive we both went to in London in our teens, I was always between London and Cornwall,” explained Strike, and Al nodded slowly, always happy to get insights of his life, which were so rare. “My two best friends married, pretty much my family both of them, and Robin’s, they’d do anything for any of us. And they’ve been trying for a child for a decade and now, finally, their first child is being born in a matter of days now, a girl.”

“At last one good thing to happen, uh?”

“Yes, only that Nick, he was recently falsely accused of a medical negligence… don’t you read the papers?”

“I’ll admit not much these days…”

“Well, it made it to the papers, even when they only called him ‘Dr N. Herbert from the Royal College Hospital’,” Strike rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Anyway, they say he’s committed manslaughter, that he’s killed a patient through medical negligence by making a prescription that was dangerous, which he swears he hasn’t done and I believe it, he’s being framed but we’re struggling to prove it, and the police used the smallest bit of evidence to accuse him of something so big, which wouldn’t sustain in trial if it wasn’t because the victim’s family is a very powerful business family pressing to have this wrapped up soon, and the judge who got it is a family friend.”

“Shit, so is he going to be all right? You’re a detective, you’ll show up to the Met again…”

“I’m trying to, but the agency is full of work, we have a big VIP client I can’t talk to you about, and a dozen other cases, we’re in over our heads, and one of our bigger cases has Robin outside the city indefinitely doing 24h undercover job, which means I have the full weight of the agency, plus taking care of my sister, trying to take Nick out of prison where he already is awaiting for trial, which doesn’t even have a date yet, and taking care of Ilsa, who’s going mad with stress and worry and about to give birth. And I care about these people, Al. I care about you, but I can’t find a way to care for… Dad,” the word stung in his tongue, but it made Al smile softly. “The same way, when he’s passed from me and my family my whole life, Al. I need to make sure Ilsa stays healthy enough to have a healthy daughter, I need to look after them for Nick until we can get him out, I need to try and get him out soon enough to not miss the one childbirth he’s probably ever going to have going, and I need to check on my half orphaned nephews, youngest of whom is nine, and just a little boy. And if on top of that I have any space left in my mind, it needs to go to my girlfriend risking her life on the line of duty every minute we’re talking, and the agency a bunch of people depend of to feed their families. I hope you understand that I truly, truly would want to be there for you Al but… there are people who actually took care of me, who have given me everything for forty years without asking for anything in exchange, who’ve sacrificed for me… I mean Nick was constantly taking care of me when my leg was blown up, changing the bandages so I wouldn’t have to look… and Uncle Ted’s alone in Cornwall and…” Strike felt momentarily overwhelmed, and took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second. “I’m overwhelmed with worry and stress, Al, and I have got to prioritise, and if I have to choose between a man who turned his back on me for forty years, and the people who willingly choose to do it all for me when they didn’t have a reason to… you know who I have to choose. It’s only the right thing to do. And I know you think you need me, but you have a shit ton of family close… my people have me, and little more. Ilsa’s husband’s career, reputation and honour is being smeared over the papers, and he’s one of the best men I know, I’d much rather devote every bit of spare energy I have to help him, than to sit by Dad’s bedside on his dying days doing nothing, otherwise I’d be betraying the people who have never once failed me, and how fair would that be?”

A l nodded energetically and released a deep sigh.

“I get it bruv, I do,” Al assured him. “I wouldn’t expect less of you and… you’re taking care of people who still have a lot to live, making sure they get it and get it good… that’s way more useful than what you could do for Dad now. You’re doing the right thing, no hard feelings, I’ll tell him how bad of a time you’re having and I’m sure he’ll understand. But would it be all right if… if you call him, some day? Just one phone call. Just ten minutes of your time, maybe?”

He looked at him pleadingly and, as much as Strike wanted to say something along the lines of ‘oh hell no’, he found himself accepting a card with Rokeby’s number and promising he’d call.

After a work day that seemed to drag on for too long in its final hours, Strike entered his BMW when it was dark outside, and checked his mobile, rubbing his tired eyes. He had several texts. The first one, from Robin, was reassuring.

‘ _Things going all right over here, I think I might have something good in a matter of days, people around here don’t seem to happy with Him. I hope you’re holding up OK. I love you. Xoxo_ ’

Strike replied to that one lovingly and, like Nick, attempted to reassure her by pretending to be better than he really felt, before moving to the next text, that was his sister’s.

‘ _Left the boys at a friend’s, I’m going to Ilsa’s and going to make her some dinner and make sure she’s looking after herself and that baby. I think she’s finally going into maternity leave now, she called me before and it sounded like she was completely drained at this point, I mean, how not, with a person inside? She’s literally over 30 pounds heavier than she was last Autumn! Anyway, hope to see you soon and catch up. Xoxo_ ’

He reread the longer text twice, seeing it was from two hours ago, before replying in his usual, one finger style.

‘ _Glad you’re with her & she’s taking time off if she’s that much heavier. Left Robin in Southwick for a VIP undercover job indefinitely this morning, so I’m solo. On my way to Wandsworth now, make me a plate pls? Xoxo_’

Lucy replied  moments later with a smile emoji, and a heart emoji, which Strike hoped meant there was dinner for him.  He moved on to the next message, which surprisingly was from Maddie.

‘ _With ya sistah at I &N’s ;) you comin’? There’s meat and we’re doing a mini dinner party to try and cheer Ilsa up. She looks knackered beyond belief & Mum’s not helping_’

He had to sigh before replying to that one, to keep the humorous tone that most communications with Ilsa’s sister had had during his life.

‘ _On my way. I WANT FOOD.’_

Two other females and one male had messaged him, which led him to briefly reflect on how much his male friends hardly ever texted him, and how it tended to fall on women to establish communication.

‘ _On my way to Ilsa’s. Was talking with Rob and Eric before, things not looking so good? TTY soon, hopefully_ ’ came from Vanessa, and he replied once more, he was coming to the same place.

‘ _Heard about Nick! What the fuck mate? Let me know if I ought to come to London and knock some sense into those bloody dickhead judges. Jamie said he was coming up, so Ted and I told him to give her some love from us_ ’ came, surprisingly, from Dave Polworth in St Mawes, and Strike replied briefly, thanking them.

T he last one, most surprisingly, came from Julie.

‘ _Court news not good for Nick. Can we talk at Ilsa’s? Might need you._ ’

‘ _Just coming._ ’

Anxious about what was going on but cheered by the prospective of dinner with some friends, Strike put his phone down and began to drive, hoping it wouldn’t be as  b ad as it looked,  while his stomach grumbled.

  
  



	24. Through the dark

** C hapter 24: Through the dark. **

For once, Strike had a hard time finding parking spots in Ilsa and Nick’s street, but he was so hungry and so tired after such a long work day, that he  decided to squeeze in Ilsa and Nick’s driveway. Nick’s car had thankfully been returned to the garage by Robin, and Ilsa had parked at the driveway, so he sneaked behind, trying to keep the boot of his car as far from the road as possible, before walking towards the house. He found Ossie, the boldest of the two cats, when he meowed at Strike from the top of the entry fence as he entered.

“What are you doing here?” said Strike with a frown. As far as he was aware, the cats weren’t supposed to leave the house, so he imagined somebody had been distracted, and as he used his spare key to open the house, Ossie jumped and rushed into the house ahead of him, apparently grateful.

The noise and food smells coming from inside the house as he hung his coat in the overfilled rack, guided Strike into a kitchen-dining room crowded with people. Ilsa sat at the table, looking indeed worn-out and tearful and huge, with Ricky half asleep and purring on top of her belly, and engaged on her mobile. Next to her, Maddie was talking with Vanessa, while in front, Lucy, Jamie and Julie sat together, the table full of food.

“Corm! It’s been so long, how are you mate?” Jamie grinned, looking tired himself, and shook Strike’s hand, getting up to greet him. Jamie, Maddie and Ilsa, Strike imagined, could’ve been triplets, for they looked so alike.

Jamie’s hair wasn’t that short, long enough to be back in a small bun, and his eyes were identical to Ilsa’s, although he was taller, fitter and broader, and had a bit of blonde stubble and a rougher look of village man, and Maddie was a lot like Ilsa, although her eyes were bluer, her face a bit rounder, her hair a little shorter, and she wasn’t pregnant, which was a clear giveaway. It also helped that of the three, only Ilsa wore glasses.

“Just fine, you?”

“Well, you know. Saw Ted and Dave before coming, Ted’s doing better I saw.”

“Hopefully yeah,” Strike nodded, kissed Lucy’s cheek, and waved at the others before sitting at the empty head of the table, evidently left for him, the broadest of them all, between Lucy and Ilsa. Ilsa smiled at him as she hung up and Lucy filled his plate, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“That was your girl, stuck in Sussex isn’t she? So lovely of her to call.”

“Yeah, she’s undercover. I’m surprised she found time to call truly, with the complexity of that case,” said Strike, and took Ilsa’s hand. “How are you, did you talk with Nick today?”

“I’m… pff…” Ilsa shrugged. “Gonna work from home now, my back’s been killing me all day, even though Jamie gave it a good rub. And yes, Nick called me this morning, his cheeriness sounds a bit more fake each time being honest, but he claims to be somewhat fine, said food’s the worst but he’s been made a listener, one of those inmates who listen to other’s problems and try to help, and he’s enjoying that. Was more interested in hearing me.”

“Of course Nick would go to prison and keep trying to heal everybody else,” Strike rolled eyes. Ilsa smiled weakly, holding her cat with one hand and beginning to eat with the other. “Can I ask how my girlfriend is, since I didn’t get a call?”

“She’s okay, tired,” replied Ilsa. “Was also more interested in hearing me.”

“Yep, we got a right pair,” Strike snorted, shaking his head. “So what are the awful news I’ve been hinted to?”

“Well,” Julie looked up to him. “I was at the prison this afternoon to check on Nick, and he’s got a purple eye he failed to mention to Ilsa, but refused to tell me who evidently hit him, probably afraid it’ll make matters worse. And he’s lost an awful lot of weight in a little over a week, which I didn’t like either. So I went to the judge, tried to get him moved to a better wing, away of whoever put hands on him, but it was denied. And then the judge told me he was actually about to call me to let me know there was a trial date, on Monday the week after next, exactly one week before due date. And Vanessa told us just now that they don’t have novelties in the case so… it’s not looking good.”

“I thought you had a plan? What we talked the other day?”

“Yes, but it’s not going to keep Nick’s reputation from being screwed, you saw how those snobs already got it bad in the papers. And it still may not get Nick from prison, specially if Ilsa goes into labour ahead of due date and can’t testify, her written statement might not be enough.”

“If she can’t testify I will,” said Strike. “I studied with him and I’ve got about a dozen of letters he sent me when I was in the army very likely in a box in Cornwall, I’ll ask Ted to dig for them for me and perhaps Robin can go pick them up, since she’s not too far, or I will, plenty of extra evidence Nick’s handwriting is not the same as that prescription showed.”

“Good, that could do,” Julie nodded, relieved.

“But you do remind me one important thing I’d completely forgotten. Next week is Charlotte’s trial, Lucy, Robin and I have to testify and Ilsa, I’m so used to having you I forgot you might not be able to make it, any way you can help me find another solicitor?”

“A handful in the firm could do it, it’s an easy case, the police did a good job,” said Ilsa. “Don’t worry about that, I’ll have someone do it, since I’m home not doing much anyway.”

“You’re making a person, but thanks,” Strike squeezed her hand appreciatively.

“Will Robin be able to come if she’s out of the city?” Lucy asked, turning to her brother.

“She has to, we’ll have to avoid work for the day, hopefully she’ll finish before anyway. She has to tell the judge how the bitch shot her, and make her best hurt puppy face to charm the jury, mine won’t do I’m afraid.”

M addie snorted a laugh.

“You could do hurt Rottweiler, maybe, but forget the puppy part.” They laughed, and Ilsa nearly spit her drink as she felt like chuckling while drinking.

“Speaking of fancy dog breeds, Robin mentioned you were meeting your brother Al today?” Ilsa asked Strike, who nodded, mouth full of steak, and gulped before answering.

“Daddy,” he said in a mock tone. “Is finally dying, this time it seems like for real. And I’m not going to be able to attend the Rokeby’s pity party but I don’t want to fall out with Al, so I told him what’s going on, and he finally understood I can’t possibly care more about that prick than my actual loved ones.”

“Oh you’re calling us loved ones? Stick, I might cry!” Lucy jokingly teased him, making them laugh. “But I just got a crazy idea. Nick’s obviously not having fun in prison, and who do we know who might be able to help him where we can’t reach?” She locked eyes intently with Strike, who watched confused, and then realization came to him.

“Shanker!” Lucy smiled and nodded. “Luce, that’s brilliant! Why didn’t I think of it?”

“Who’s Shanker?” asked Maddie, confused.

“An old family friend, total gangster, from our squat days. He’ll do anything for a bit of money, if Corm asks, they were mates!”

“Mates is a bit of a long stretch, but yes,” Strike was already pulling out his phone. “He’s been in and out of every prison in London, I bet he has some acquaintance in the prison of Wandsworth that can be Nick’s bodyguard and help him around, if we pay.”

Ilsa’s eyes lit up.

“That’d be brilliant!” With a smile, Strike phoned Shanker. After a few rings, he picked up.

“What’s up Bunsen?” Shanker’s voice came.

The sound of girl voices that undoubtedly belonged to Zahara and Angel Vincent, the daughters of his girlfriend Alyssa, in the background, gave Strike such an odd image of Shanker being domestic in a family setting, that he couldn’t even process it, for it seemed crazy just to think about it.

“Hello Shanker, hey, d’you have anybody in the prison of Wandsworth who’d protect and help around a friend of mine who’s been imprisoned there? Should just be a few weeks at most, he’s there for a crime he didn’t commit and we’ll get him out, but he’s a doctor strongly against violence and somebody’s already blacked his eye, so we’re trying to protect him until we can get him out. Say five hundred quid a week?”

“Shit, sure thing, Bunsen!” Shanker sounded excited by the money. “I know someone, yah, he’ll help ya friend if I ask. Who issit?”

“Nick Herbert, he’s just gone in, a week and a half ago. I’ll text you the description so your mate can identify him and I’ll meet you where usual with the money tomorrow? And you arrange this with urgency, tonight if possible?”

“Gotcha, sure!” Without further ado, Shanker, who never did goodbyes, hung up.

“Perfect, we got it,” Strike grinned. “You’re brilliant, Lucy, thank you.” Lucy beamed happily.

“It’s a ton of money though, let me get my wallet…” Ilsa made to move, but Strike stopped her.

“How much money have you guys given me over the years, for one thing or another, without even accepting a return?” Strike told her, grabbing her hand again. Ilsa shrugged, not really knowing. “At least a few thousands for sure, uh? Let me do this for you, it’s on me.”

“Five hundred a week? How are you going to…?”

“Two hundred fifty, we’ll split it,” Lucy intervened.

“Make it one hundred fifty, Maddie and I will transfer Corm the money,” said Jamie, and Maddie nodded. “You need to save yours for the baby and for all the fancy dinners Nick’s got coming when he’s back, sis.”

“I’ve got…” Vanessa dug in her wallet. “A hundred quid,” she handed them to Strike, “not sure I can contribute more, you know I don’t make much, but at least it’ll do for tomorrow.”

“I think I’ve got two hundred, a client paid today,” Julie was also digging in her pocket, and handed them to Strike too. “Will send you more next week.”

“And Nick’s family will pay, Dan makes good money, we just have to tell them,” added Lucy. “So it’s five hundred between what? Eight or so? That’s just sixty two and a half pounds a week for as long as Nick’s in prison. Dave might send some money too when he can. Shouldn’t be much, right?”

“It’s perfect,” Strike felt happiness for once, shoving it in his wallet. “We don’t need to ask much people, Robin and I saved a ton of money from what you all gave us after the fire.”

Ilsa’s eyes were full of tears, and she looked at them in awe. She knew her friends and bartender money didn’t make so much, and her sister did well, but it would still be a bit of an effort.  London wasn’t cheap at all.

“You guys… this is…” she was speechless.

“Nick is a good man, Ilsa,” said Vanessa simply. “And the system’s failed him. If there’s a way we can keep him safe and protected in that hellhole, we’re absolutely doing it, even if it means paying a gangster, should be the police that kept him safe to start with, and we fucked up.”

“Thank you,” Ilsa muttered before breaking into tears, sobbing out of control, and Strike rushed to hold her, moving his chair a little to reach her as Ricky ran off.

“You worry about that baby, and we will do everything else, whatever it takes,” Strike promised her. “And if Nick gets sentenced, I’ll arrange something with Eric to get me imprisoned there too to look after him for the long run, okay?”

“You wouldn’t!” Ilsa sobbed into his shoulder.

“He’s my brother, of course I bloody would,” said Strike, and he knew not just that he meant it fully, but that Robin would even support him. Nick was, after all, a good man. “Hey, by the way, Maddie told me your Mum’s being difficult again?”

“Annoying,” Ilsa murmured into his shoulder, thankful for the change of topic. “She was indignant I’m not Nick’s lawyer.”

“Ugh, she can sod off for a bit.”

H ours later, the house was nearly empty and dark, Ilsa’s siblings back in Reading after Strike had offered to stay instead of them. He didn’t like going back to an empty bed now he’d gotten used to having Robin, Ilsa didn’t like going back to an empty bed either, and since they’d been sharing beds since childhood they agreed they could, as siblings they practically were, go back to it and keep each other company, both conscious that they were both worried about their own partners and each other’s. Nick was in prison and Robin, they both knew, in a dangerous mission that, if there was anybody in the RMP who found out she was trying to get stuff against Carter and faking another identity, specially if said person was Carter’s buddy, would land her in prison, if not worse.

They were both scared, lying side by side on the Herbert’s king size bed, staring in the dark at the white ceiling while listening to the cats running around the house, in their most active moment of the day.

“Robin will be okay,” Ilsa murmured at last. “She’s got Tracey, and she’s wickedly smart. If anybody knows how to survive most situations, it’s gotta be Robin.”

Strike turned to her, surprised her first comment was about his girlfriend, and not her own husband. His leg rested against the wall nearby, and under the duvet he was in boxers and his underclothes t-shirt, his bare right  half leg brushing slightly with Ilsa’s trousers. Situation could’ve felt awkward, but given they had been doing this type of thing since babies, it didn’t, even when it hadn’t happened in years. The fact that Ilsa liked the same side of the bed as Robin only added to his comfort, as he found himself familiar with turning to his right to see his company, and exiting the bed through his left.  And Ilsa, he knew, wasn’t squeamish about his stump, which she’d massaged and helped him care for many times in the early days, when it looked far worse and Strike  wasn’t prepared to look or touch it,  so there was absolutely no reason to be uncomfortable. And now, she asked about the woman he loved,  touching him deeply.

“You’re right,” he said softly, and moved a hand over the duvet to intertwine his fingers with hers and give it a gentle squeeze. 

Strike knew Ilsa could hardly see clearly without her glasses, so he didn’t understand if her eyes were open, as the white of them shun with the little street light coming through the window, out of fear for the nightmares of her husband she had undoubtedly been having, or if it was because she was too tense with worry to relax, but either way he knew the blinder someone was, the more physical touch could be comforted, depending on the person. In Ilsa’s case, it worked that way, not to mention physical touch was nearly always comforting for a well-sighted person either way, so as much as Strike wasn’t too physically affective, he kept his hand there, as long as Ilsa was holding his hand back.  He’d ground her, he’d hold her, he’d do whatever she needed him to do.

“You two are going strong, right?”

Ilsa’s question made Strike realize she needed a change of topic; to focus on happier, better things.

“I hope so,” said Strike, satisfying her as he knew he would. “I love living with her, doing everything with her. The flat feels enormous without her, and having all the hot water in the world doesn’t quite compensate.”

“I feel you,” Ilsa nodded slowly. “D’you reckon you’ll marry her one day?”

“Perhaps. D’you think I should?”

“Yes,” Ilsa answered without a moment of hesitation. “The marriage in itself is the least of the reasons. The papers, the formality, the compromise, the rings, the tax reduction… those are the least. In the end, what stays with you the most is the memory of the day. One day in your whole life with your most favourite people present, getting to be all over your partner without being constantly teased or it being improper, getting to be as cheesy as romantic as you feel and celebrate love, without any hesitation, without any worry or concern, a day of just pure glee. Nick told me once, back when he wasn’t a gastroenterologist yet but just doing his first years in hospital, with his training, and he’d spend full days and nights there, that when he had to go to sleep in on-call rooms, he always used our wedding memory to go to sleep. Said for all those years, and every hard night afterwards, it’s the one thing that never fails. Pretty sure he’s thinking of it now.” Her voice got strangely hoarse, and Strike watched her silently.

“Then I’ll marry her,” he decided. “I have plenty of hard nights, could use the memory.” She snorted a tearful laugh.

“What d’you use now instead?”

“Uhm… it varies,” Strike shrugged, thoughtful. “Often, she’s here, and I just focus on her perfume and her little noises, not thinking of anything. She makes these little whimpers sometimes, it’s kinda cute, like a dog. And when she’s not around… or when we were in hospital, and I couldn’t reach her and it just smelled of hospital… I think of what it feels like to hug her and to be hugged by her.” Ilsa hummed in agreement.

“She does give good hugs.”

“Right? That’s when I knew I loved her. When we hugged for the first time, and she’d just married that tosser, and we bid goodbye at her reception before I returned to London for the night. We hugged, and I just couldn’t bear to separate, didn’t feel right. She was home. Always been, I s’ppose.” Ilsa smiled softly. She knew he was only talking about it because she was down, and if she mentioned it publicly, he’d deny it.

“She’s told me about that hug too. Meant a lot to her.”

“Really?”

“Yeah… not that far ago actually. One night, over drinks, before all this mess. Meant a lot to her,” she repeated, and he nodded.

“D’you also think of your wedding to sleep when it’s tricky?”

“Sometimes,” replied Ilsa. “But most of the time… I think of the first time Nick and I had sex.”

“Gee, Ilsa!” Ilsa laughed.

“Not like that! Y’know when afterwards… there’s the cuddle time, the sweet quiet before you fall asleep?”

“Yeah,” Strike smiled softly.

“That’s it for me,” Ilsa murmured. “Back when we were so young… it was the first time he came to St Mawes after we’d begun… whatever our first months were, a distance relationship I guess. Totally whipped, and two virgins at eighteen.”

“Really?” Strike found himself asking, surprised. “None of you…?”

“No. And one evening we went on a proper date, and my parents backed off, me being eighteen and all, and we went discreetly to a motel, ‘cause he was staying with you then.”

“Hold up I remember that trip! I didn’t even realize he’d sneaked out!”

“Because you were shagging some girl,” Ilsa teased him.

“I don’t even remember that part…”

“I do,” Ilsa chuckled. “Anyway, he was super nervous, and so was I, but it was perfect. And afterwards, I’d never slept naked with a guy, even with you’ve always had at the very least underwear and it wasn’t remotely sexual. But I remember my cheek on his chest, how thin he was then, and how his heartbeat lured me to sleep, his arms around me while he whispered sweet nothing. I think he loved me already then. I think I loved him too, then. He was unlike anybody I’ve ever known… two decades later, and he still is.”

“Yeah,” agreed Strike with a nod. “You guys were always obsessed with each other. Never understood how you could so amicably and mutually break up for your studies and how you miss went and got engaged. You should’ve called him the second you graduated, and he should’ve never dated anyone else.”

“Oh, we’ve got a shipper?” she teased with amusement, and he grunted, making her giggle softly, then sniffle, and Strike pretended not to see her wipe her eyes. “We needed more experience, and it was okay. We always said if it was meant to be, it’d happen. Nick needed someone else to be sure no other girl could make him feel like me, and I needed to be on the brink of marrying the wrong guy to admit who I’d really prefer to marry instead. And it didn’t matter both Jessica and Marco were pretty decent partners.”

“Jessica wasn’t. He suspected she cheated.”

“Yeah? He never told me that,” Ilsa said surprised.

“’Cause he didn’t want you to feel bad for him, as per usual, and ‘cause it didn’t matter anyway, not when he had you back. Pretty sure she never even crossed his mind, as engrossed as he was with you once you got back together.”

“Always too good for the world, our Nick. Too good,” she murmured sadly. Strike rolled over and kissed her wet, savoury cheek softly, rubbing her arm. He hated to see her so uncharacteristically low.

“If he survived med school and those years living in hospital, he’ll manage this, it’s a piece of cake in comparison,” Strike said humorously, and she snorted a laugh. “Trust me, Ilsa. Nick will be fine, you will be fine, Evelyn will be fine. Perhaps her first year won’t be the easiest or the most ideal, since people from prison sometimes come back a little weird… but it’ll be one rough year of the rest of your lives, Ilsa. And trust me, I’m an expert in rough years, and once they’re over and you’re in bed with the love of your life and I guess in your case… the baby you always wanted, too… all the suffering you had pales in comparison. Everything just becomes worth it. Trust me. One day, you and Nick will be taking little Evelyn to her first day of kindergarten with another baby in tow, and all of this will seem just a bad dream.”

“You really think so?” Ilsa turned to him. “You know I don’t like being lied to, even for my comfort. The only reason I’m not fighting with Nick about his comforting lies is because we only have one hour to be together when I visit and I want to make it good.”

“Ilsa, I got blown up and spent months in a hospital. I spent years of my life in shit squats with Lucy. She’s lost so much… look how she smiled and laughed tonight. Look how well I’ve been doing with Robin. The memories stay forever but… when you’re staring at the Northern Lights, your mind doesn’t drift off to your last memory of pooing, you know what I mean? When the present is so good, the past doesn’t matter so much any more, let alone the ugly one, so tomorrow, when this is past and Nick’s back… this won’t matter so much. We’ll help him heal from whatever he’s gone through in prison, and everybody will get through this just fine, he’ll just focus on his baby just like Anstis this when he came back with half face ripped off, and he’s a father of three now, happily married after all this years still. Nick is a positive guy, healthiest guy… whatever demons, he’ll heal, you’ll heal, and Evelyn will be there as a permanent remainder of what truly matters.”

I lsa took a deep breath and nodded.

“Thanks, Corm. You promise no matter what… you’ll never feed me comforting lies, okay? Just truth even if it hurts.”

“You’ve got my word,” he kissed her cheek again. “Now, do you want me to cuddle you or what?” Ilsa sniggered and rolled on her side, facing the other side of the bed and stuffing a pillow under her large pregnant belly and another between her knees under the duvet, so Strike understood why the bed had so many pillows.

“Spoon me?”

“Okay,” Strike moved behind Ilsa and wrapped a strong arm around her. “Got your back… better now?”

“Yes, thanks,” her small voice came, her hand over his against her belly. “Can I ask you another favour?”

“All the favours you want.”

“If Nick doesn’t make it to the baby’s birth… I know we’re saying he will, but if it doesn’t happen, whatever the reason… will you be there with me when I go into labour?”

“Don’t you prefer Robin, or your sister?”

“No,” Ilsa murmured. “They’re fine but… you’re the most comforting presence I know, next to Nick. I think it’s cause you remind me of a giant teddy bear and your voice is so deep.” Strike snorted a laugh.

“All right then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, of course. Anything you need, told you.”

  
  



	25. Fuck off Charlotte

**Chapter 25: Fuck off Charlotte.**

As the days passed, Strike seemed to move to Nick and Ilsa’s, keeping his friend’s side of the bed warm, rubbing Ilsa’s back when it hurt most and her swollen feet she couldn’t even reach any more, cooking for her too, when she didn’t feel like it, which was often. She’d come tearful and knackered back to the car whenever he drove her to the prison to see Nick, because she couldn’t reach her steering wheel comfortably with her belly,  and in the mornings they’d split in comfortable domesticity, Ilsa to her and Nick’s office to work what she could from home, and Strike to his own in Baker Street.

O n the morning of Charlotte’s trial, Robin was returning to London just for it, with advances in the case but a need to go back to Southwick as soon as it was over, and Ilsa was slapping Strike’s hand away from his tie as she tried to help him get ready.

“Out of here! You’re making it worse,” Ilsa readjusted his tie knot herself impatiently. “There, smooth in your suit, ready for court. I hate missing this, seeing Charlotte sink…”

“We’ll tell you and Nick all about it,” Strike kissed her forehead. She was in pyjamas, too big and uncomfortable and ready to give birth any day now to move. “D’you have your mobile charged, always with you?” Ilsa patted the belt pouch he’d gotten her in response. “Good. You call Dan, or Maddie…”

“...if I go into labour, I know,” Ilsa rolled eyes. “Don’t worry about me, you’ve got to face Charlotte in an hour.”

“I’m fine. More nervous about seeing Robin after nearly two weeks to be honest, I’ll see her in court, she was just in her ca—,”

Before he could finish, they heard Maddie, who’d come to stay with Ilsa for the day in Strike’s absence, open the door, then a rush of steps, murmur of voices, and Ilsa, who’d been plotting with Robin behind his back, smiled discreetly.

“I’ll see you downstairs,” she said, leaving her room. Strike frowned, confused, and the door opened again, Robin beaming at him in her court outfit.

“ROBIN!” he beamed from ear to ear, and they collided, arms tight around each other. The smell of her and the feel of her were enough to make him feel warm and dizzy, and he covered her face in kisses as she giggled.

“I take you missed me?”

“So much… how…?”

“Ilsa,” Robin chuckled, and Strike snorted a laugh.

“Of course. Come here…” he held her face, kissing her deeply until their lungs screamed for oxygen. “You look great,” he said, separating and looking at her properly. “Are you okay? Everything going well?”

“Yes, I’m advancing, but I have to go straight back from court,” Robin pecked his lips. “You look handsome as ever.” He looked smug at the compliment. “I missed you, and your stupid smug smile.” She hugged him again, and he squeezed her tight. “Just a few more days, I promise. I’m nearly there.”

“I trust you,” he kissed the top of her head. “Ready to give one bitch what she’s got coming?”

“Born ready.”

They held hands, feeling instantly ready for any battle at the touch, and walked out the room together.

For several days now, Strike had been training Jack to testify in court, to tell the judge what he saw, describe the car Charlotte had used, but with the confession Robin had gotten it would only be to put the cherry on top, and not absolutely necessary. For three hours, they saw a much more decent and put together Charlotte, not the mad woman Robin had previously witnessed, but one that had been first in prison and then, following a psychiatric evaluation, in a psychiatric hospital under arrest until trial, one that was probably medicated.

To Strike it was bizarre to face her in court. She was elegant as ever, slimmer than ever, and also the coldest snake he’d ever seen, slippery, tenacious and witty, aiming to provoke pity in the jury,  with a sad story of her own about how she’d been dealing with a psychotic break but she wasn’t a bad person and she was so, so sorry about the pain she had caused, with allegedly a bipolar disorder and schizophrenia that were to blame, not her, for all the bad things she had done, including the numerous attempted murders. It had been over a month since Ilsa had gotten the whole family restraining orders against Charlotte, to protect them just in case, so Strike knew it’d be mostly okay regardless, although he still hoped to tumble down her psychopath persona and get her in a proper category A prison for extremely dangerous prisoners,  where she’d never get out.

However, the judge and jury considered differently. A psychotherapist testified what Charlotte needed is psychological help and medication, a proper treatment, and as much as Strike disagreed, the people who had to decide her future agreed that she needed life imprisonment in a high security mental hospital, just like Dennis Creed. Upon hearing her sentence, crazy Charlotte emerged, wailing, screaming and shouting threats left and right, and Strike watched, horrified, at the new version he had never witnessed before. He had seen her make terrible tantrums before, but that was beyond that. Charlotte had never been a fan of  _public_ shows of tantrums and craziness, Charlotte kept a smile for the cameras, and this place was full of them. But now, Charlotte’s eyes could only be described as crazy, and for the first time, the only word Strike could think of when looking at her was psychopath.

“Let’s go,” Robin put a comforting hand on his back, watching his shocked expression with worried eyes. “Let’s go, Cormoran.”

Pressured by the circumstances, Robin accepted tea at Ilsa and Nick’s instead of going straight to Southwick as she had initially intended to, because Strike and Jack looked quite shocked still, while Lucy comforted both her sons, the youngest of one hadn’t been in the trial, reassured them and helped them. At last, when it was time to go, Robin hoped Strike would be all right.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she reassured him at the entry, cupping his face. “I almost got him, Strike.”

Strike’s hands cupped her face, then fell to her shoulders and slid down to her waist, as his lips moved to press against her forehead.

“I know you do,” he whispered. “And I’ll be here when you make it. I have absolute faith in you.”

Her lips curved into a small smile and she kissed him lingeringly.

“I’ll see you at Nick’s trial, or sooner, if I finish in Southwick earlier,” she promised. “Will you and Ilsa be all right?”

“Yes, don’t you worry,” Strike nodded, and kissed her softly. “Drive safe, text me when you get there.”

“Okay,” she gave him one last hug and left the house. Strike locked after her and returned to the kitchen, where Ilsa was wincing at the taste of one of Nick’s signature juices.

“Healthy as fuck, but I don’t know how Nick still has taste sense,” she commented with a grimace, and he snorted a laugh. To both of their surprise, his laugh suddenly turned into a chocked sob and he began to cry without really knowing why. Taken aback, Ilsa put the glass down and rushed to hug him the best she could, in spite of her large size. “Hey… Corm, it’s okay, everything’s gonna be okay…”

“It’s all my fault,” he sobbed out, heaving against her shoulder. “All my fucking… fault!”

“What are you talking about?” Ilsa separated, cupping his bearded face as he sniffled and heaved, trying to control himself. “Oggy, what is it?” she asked with worry in her eyes. She hadn’t seen him cry much in her life, and couldn’t remember the last time.

“Charlotte,” Strike realized as he said it, and took a deep breath, guilt eating his insides. For the first time, Ilsa’s eyes didn’t turn angry at the mention of her name, but she remained expectant, not wanting to rant but wanting to understand. “Nick’s always said it, hasn’t he? That she needed help, that she needed to be in a psychiatric.”

“You put her into one once.”

“For close to no time, and I got her out,” he breathed deeply again. “Ilsa, I knew she was insane, everybody said it, I knew it, and I didn’t make sure she’d spend at least a few years in a mental hospital, I didn’t even try to force her into permanent psychotherapy treatment, we just fought and fought and fought, and no matter what, I kept coming back to her. If I’d done what I knew I had to do… if I’d listened to people like Nick… perhaps she wouldn’t have gotten so bad, perhaps the IEDs wouldn’t have happened, Luke and Greg would still be alive, and Robin wouldn’t carry a permanent gunshot scar. If I had stopped trying to help her alone, making myself stubbornly responsible of her well being and accepted it was beyond me, that if I truly loved her and truly cared about her I had to put her away… but I didn’t… I didn’t.”

“Oggy…” Ilsa sighed, and took his hand. “Come here sweetie.”

While he managed to calm himself, she dragged him upstairs to her bedroom, which they’d been sharing, and they sat at the feet of her bed, which he’d made that morning. She wrapped an arm around his shoulder, her free hand taking one of his, and he sniffled against her shoulder, letting out deep breaths.

“Oggy, listen to me, not as busybody Ilsa, but as the one friend who’s been with you since babies, and the one who makes a living analysing people for legal purposes,” she sighed. “Look, I know you hate to hear this, but bear with me. Leda was a fucking disaster. I loved her, she was so loving and so generous… but a fucking disaster,” Strike was surprised to hear her swear, which didn’t happen often. “She wanted to help everyone and she ended up dead for it, always seeing the best on people, even when they don’t deserve it. Y’know why Lucy and I always worry so much about you? ‘Cause we know you are just like her in that, and we don’t want you to end up dead too.”

“What does that have to do with…?”

“Because Leda worried about everyone too much if she saw them defenceless and useless, but for some reason, perhaps she saw you as a very capable boy, or thought you and Lucy had Joan and Ted and people like Whittaker or Shanker only had her, she never looked after you both as she should. And so you did. What Jack’s been doing, trying to seem older and more grown-up, to care for his family in the shoes of Greg? He’s doing what he knows you have always done, just like you did what you saw Ted had always done, you guys just keep perpetuating the same bullshit. Ted did it all for his sister because she was useless, and never let her take responsibility, could’ve called social services, who would’ve called her attention and forced her to take responsibility and grow up, but he didn’t, he let her get used to knowing she could do the heck she wanted and someone else would clean up after her. I’m not saying he did a bad thing, he did what he thought he was best, because he loved her and didn’t want her to hate him, but it didn’t help, just like it doesn’t help to overprotect and shelter your own kid doing it all yourself until they don’t know nothing. And then, she went and did her life and left you to clean up, to look after Lucy and after her. And you grew up feeling like you had to look after other women who were useless and couldn’t look after themselves, or who for whatever reason were in a moment of vulnerability. Lucy ‘cause she was a little girl afraid of most things, Leda ‘cause she let any dangerous man manipulate her and refused to feel how dangerous they could be, even me now ‘cause I’m so pregnant and Nick’s in prison.”

“I just wanna help… I didn’t have a choice… what was I supposed to do? Abandon her?”

“I don’t know, sweetie. I don’t think you had a choice then, at least not one that wouldn’t hurt you tremendously one way or another. You, like Leda, want to help everyone, take care of everyone, be generous and kind to everyone, as long as they seem good, innocent or vulnerable, like Mrs Quine or that mentally ill boy, Billy Night was it?”

“Yeah…”

“Look, we love you for that heart of gold, but you have to learn to admit when it’s time to give up. I know you don’t want to, nobody does, you think I accept happily when a client I defend is guilty and I’ve got to lose and let them get to prison? No. Everyone wants to believe they can be Superman and help everyone, but we can’t. You have to pick your battles more wisely, Cormoran. Don’t be so much like your mother, nor like Ted, and don’t let Jack be so much like you either and do the same… Ted let his love stop him from doing the right thing and didn’t let Leda get help, you did it once with Charlotte, now accept it’s time to stop caring about her, and let her go and get help because it’s what’s right, what’s best for her and what’s best for everyone else, and trust me I’m gulping my pride because I always fought Nick on that, if it was up to me that monster would be in prison forever… but Nick was right, she belongs in a mental facility, they will help her there, you have to accept it’s not your job, it never was. You could never save her, you couldn’t save Leda, you can’t save everyone, you’re only human, Oggy.”

“I know, but…” he shrugged. “Perhaps if I’d tried harder…”

“No,” Ilsa said firmly. “Stop trying, Oggy. Choose to help those who you can help, like Leonora Quine or Billy Night, or Lucy, or Nick, or Robin or myself… but stop trying to aid just everyone. Open your eyes and trust your instincts when they tell you someone’s trouble, and even when you help somebody who you can actually make a difference for… change your ways. With Lucy, you overprotected her so much she didn’t learn to fight her own battles. You could’ve taught her boxing, but you taught her to hide and to run. With Charlotte, the same… you’ve been everybody’s father instead of lover or brother, always taking care of everybody but yourself, in my honest opinion I think that’s why you refuse fatherhood so firmly, because you’re sick and tired of caring for vulnerable little things who can’t do anything for themselves, but you should realise some people can do much more if you let them, like you did with Robin. You did it all right with her, you know? You could’ve sheltered her and overprotect her, but you gave her the tools to fight instead, your knowledge, your skills, your reassurance and your courage, that’s why she’s so good, or else, she’d still be that girl locked in her house all afraid.”

“Robin never let me overprotect her,” Strike straightened only to lean forward, rubbing his eyes, and Ilsa rubbed circles on her back. “She never let me keep her away from danger.”

“Because that’s the trick with everything, Oggy,” said Ilsa softly. “A kid doesn’t learn to ride a bicycle if you don’t let them go. Robin reached her full potential like children do under proper parenthood, with someone to teach them what they know, give them the right tools, push them, and reassure them to leave the nest and go solo, like Robin does now all alone in Southwick, knowing you’ll catch them if they fall, taking the fear off things. Lucy learned it now, having to get up and take care of herself and her sons knowing we’d all show up if she needs us, but that she needed to face the demons and become stronger, so that Jack doesn’t feel a need to protect her and does like you, growing faster than he should.”

“Why do I feel you two have been talking about that?”

“Because we have. She’s stronger now because she’s facing things differently. Oggy, Charlotte was never your responsibility, you see? She was your girlfriend, your fiancée, somebody you were in love with, and somebody who had a terrible mental health problem, and you wanted to help just like anybody else truly in love with her would have… you don’t do things halfway after all, either you love with your all, or you don’t, no maybes. But it wasn’t your duty to help her, and you couldn’t cure her, and you couldn’t make yourself responsible. Everything she did, everything her life was… that’s on her, Oggy, not on you. It’s not a matter of what you could’ve done… it wasn’t your job to do to begin with, uh? It wasn’t. So stop thinking what if… no. She had parents, siblings, tons of people to have insisted, even her GP, or the therapists that saw her, and all of them fucked up, and you weren’t her Dad. You did your best, you gave her your all, it wasn’t enough because she’s toxic, not because there’s anything wrong with you. So let her go. Let it all go, you’re free now, there’s nobody else you need to father and babysit.”

Strike released a deep breath, nodding, his head hanging low.

“I like taking care of people though.”

“Then get a dog.”

He chuckled and looked up at her, taking her hand. She smiled softly.

“I can still take care of you for a little while longer, right?”

“Of course. Y’know why?”

“Because your husband’s in prison?”

“No,” Ilsa squeezed his hand. “Because you know I’m a smart, capable, strong woman, and that once this baby is born, with or without my husband, I will do whatever it takes to lead the way and make sure she becomes a good, happy, capable, strong woman without depending on you or anybody else. You can only help those who accept your help responsibly, knowing that each person has their own lives, and that the goal of being helped is to get better again, find your footing and be capable of continuing your life independently. I need help now and I accept it, just like a sick person does, but we all know I look forward to not needing help any more. The time when women were little helpless creatures not needing to be responsible of themselves because they belonged to a husband or a father is long gone.”

“You’re right,” Strike nodded. “Thanks, Ilsa. It just shock me to see her today, that’s all.”

“I know, Robin told me,” Ilsa kissed his cheek. “When you need something, I’m here, uh? I can’t make a person and help you all at once.”

“Hardcore you, that’s what you are,” he smiled at her fondly. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Me likes that!”

  
  



	26. Deep breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Evelyn has Germanic origins, so I took the pronunciation from a Germanic female relative called Evelyn, who pronounces both ‘e’ as in Sherlock (although depending on the accent the ‘ve’ could also be pronounced ‘v’ and the first ‘E’ could also be same as in She, but it’s not how she or her Germanic family do it) and the ‘lyn’ as in Clint, Flint. As for Meraud, I found it was supposed to be pronounced by the Cornish as Mer-od, with the ‘e’ of Greg or Michael and the ‘od’ of odd, the ‘o’ of port.

**C** **hapter 26:** **Deep breath.**

The 20 th of June was Saturday, the only one before Nick’s trial on Monday after nearly a month in prison, and Strike had planned to spend it sleeping. It was warm yet rainy, and he’d been looking forward to nesting at Nick and Ilsa’s house, ‘looking’ after Ilsa, after having spent the entire night gone on tailing for the agency, but his god daughter, seemingly, had different plans, because he woke up with Ilsa’s pained groans.

“What’s up?” he asked sleepy, rolling over to face his friend. “Did she kick your liver again?”

When instead of an answer, he heard a long groaning and saw Ilsa roll over with her arms around her belly, he worried and sat up.

“Ilsa, is everything all right?”

Ilsa raised her palm, as if telling her to wait, and he waited patiently for several seconds until Ilsa could finally explain.

“I’m in early stages of labour, it’s just that, go back to sleep,” she said sleepily.

“You what? What?” Strike sat up, his heart accelerated in nerves. He hadn’t actually expected her to give birth with Nick gone, and therefore he hadn’t prepared for the eventuality and knew nothing of what to expect. “Where’s your hospital bag? Who do I call? Do you need something? Is it okay to give you Paracetamol? I’m gonna call 999—,”

“Cormoran Blue Strike,” Ilsa’s voice was soft but stern. “Lie down, close your eyes, fall asleep.”

“Why you give birth?” Strike looked confused. Ilsa giggled and turned around, looking at him with amusement and soft eyes.

“Honey, I’m not going to give birth at least until tomorrow. I’ve been having one minute long contraction every half an hour since yesterday evening, and for a first time Mama the early stage can be a full day long, if not more.”

“Oh… so what happens now? I’m sorry, I don’t really know… anything really…”

She looked tenderly at him, or at the blurry image of him she had without glasses on.

“Now, we wait. My body is just preparing to give birth, the baby is dropping lower, the cervix is dilating… takes a long time for the body to be ready for the show the first time around. We wait, we wait, and I’m timing the contractions,” she lifted a notebook she had on her bedside table, full of notes. In his sleepy state, when he’d arrived at four, he hadn’t seen it. He’d been too busy trying not to wake Ilsa up, “so that when they’re five minutes apart instead of half an hour, and continue to be for at least an hour, or they get so painful I can’t breathe, or when the water breaks, or if I start bleeding, whatever happens first, we can calmly call my midwife. I removed my phone lock so you can grab it and call if I can’t, it’s in speed dial, you just press one. Until then, my job is to rest all I possibly can and save up my energy for a possible night of pushing.”

“Okay,” Strike nodded, and lied back down. “Good…” he took a deep breath, feeling his heart calm down. “Anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

“It’s a long shoot, but you could call Julie and tell her what’s happening and to try and convince a judge to let my husband come just for a couple hours when I go on active labour, so at least he doesn’t miss that.”

“I’ll do that, yes,” Strike nodded. He was too awake to go back to sleep anyway, so he began putting on his leg. “I’ll check your bag to make sure is hospital ready, get some breakfast going, then we can go back to sleep with full bellies.”

“Thanks Oggy.”

“You rest,” he kissed her shoulder and saw her nod, and he stood up, eyeing the cats on the bed. “You two take care of Mummy.”

He heard her chuckle, and walked out of the room, pressing his phone against his ear. After calling Julie, he began making pancakes and juice, trying to think of what Ilsa needed in her system for a good delivery, and on a second thought, phoned Robin. It was crazy early, but she might be awake. She picked up on the third ring.

“Cormoran, everything okay?” she sounded worried.

“Ilsa’s begun having contractions. Not much movement yet, she’s sleeping and she said it could be a full day more still, but…” he sighed. “I don’t know. Julie’s going to try to convince the judge to let Nick come just for a couple hours to be with Ilsa when she goes on active labour.”

“Oh…” said Robin. “Woah, it’s happening, uh? Well don’t be nervous, Ilsa’s right, it’ll take a long time still. Many hours. And then all it’ll happen is that the contractions would get really painful and really close together, and that’ll last another bunch of hours before she begins pushing, my sister-in-law and my cousin told me all about it. Took my niece nearly three days to arrive, and Katie was on labour for four days, so don’t sweat it.”

“That’s good to know,” Strike nodded, frying the first pancake. “How are you?”

“Actually, I was packing to head home today,” she said cheerfully.

“What? You finished?”

“Yes! I’m coming home baby… woah, perhaps I should refrain from using that nickname considering what’s going on,” he snorted a laugh.

“You’re coming back? So you got solid evidence?”

“I think so, at least a bunch of stuff we should study carefully all together at the office before deciding on next steps. I think Carter is going to have to lose his job, he’s not doing things properly… anyway, I’ll tell you all about it when I get home. I’m going to finish packing, get driving with Tracey, have a good shower in our apartment, and I’ll be right there with you and Ilsa. Carter can wait for now.”

“Oh, that’s great Robin! Fuck, that’s perfect.”

“I also have an idea to get Nick out if the judge doesn’t get convinced, but it may be insane.”

“I think we’re desperate enough to hear it,” said Strike putting the phone on speaker to grate the cheese on the pancake.

“Well, what if a few of us confess to have written the prescription? The judge won’t have any other option but to reopen the investigation and let Nick go home until things are cleared out.”

“Yes, but he could send us all to prison for lying and obstructing the course of justice, love,” Strike said with an amused smile. “But the idea amuses and tempts me, I’ll give you that.”

“That’s what I feared. Anyway, I’ll keep thinking, gotta go love.”

“Okay, see you soon, drive safely.”

“Will do, love you.”

“Love you right back.”

Strike told Ilsa the good news as they sat in bed to devour the pancakes and the juice he’d brought upstairs, and she smiled, happy to see Robin again soon, and happy her best friends would at last be reunited, if not Nick and her.  He even told her Robin’s crazy idea, just to make her laugh.

“Aw, God bless her,” Ilsa hummed in delight with the pancakes. “These are _good_ Corm.”

“Why that tone of surprise? I love food and I love independence, you know I’d have to learn to pamper myself. Those extra pounds didn’t happen for nothing.”

She chuckled, adjusting her glasses on her nose.

“You’re way more domestic than I gave you credit for. Thanks, though… you’re being a hell of a godfather already, and friend. Can’t wait to tell Evelyn all about how you stepped up for us when we needed you most.”

“Make sure to tell her all her parents did for me too, no, I will,” Strike squeezed her cheek affectionately. “Now you’re full, want to try sleeping a bit more?”

“Definitely. Contractions are twenty-five and twenty-three minutes apart now, so things are moving step by step.”

“Okay, you rest, I’ll handle the rest.”

After double checking Ilsa’s hospital bag, the baby bag, and the emergency bag Nick had left prepared in case the birth happened at home, with everything necessary to carry it out successfully from clamps for the umbilical cord, to all sorts of towels and blankets ‘because say the weather gets horrible, or traffic sucks and we don’t make it to the hospital, you know Nick, he likes being prepared for everything’, Strike was left to wait anxiously for Robin, dying to see her, hold her and kiss her after all the weeks apart.

It took nearly four hours and lunch coming and going, to receive another phone call after the first, in which Robin said something had come up, but she was in London and on her way to them now, and then she hung up, Strike checked on Ilsa again, saw contractions were every twenty minutes but still slow, and returned down the stairs just as the doorbell ran.

In two steps, he was yanking the door open and Robin was jumping to his arms.

“Oh my Robin… my love…” Strike buried his face in her hair and clenched her tight.

“Sorry I took some time,” Robin kissed his cheek, then his lips, before her feet returned to the ground and they kissed again and separated. Strike needed a moment to reassure himself Robin looked great, happy, healthy, smelling freshly showered.

“It’s okay, you’re here now. What held you, though?” He noticed then she was holding a giant teddy bear for, presumably, Evelyn.

“Oh, Tracey and I decided to photocopy everything we had and keep it in different places, for safety. She’s home reuniting with her family now, how’s Ilsa?”

“Upstairs, in and out of sleep depending on how bad each contraction comes, twenty minutes apart now,” they began to walk upstairs, hand in hand, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Robin grinned cheerfully at her. “See what I got Evie?”

“Lucky girl, I thought it was for me and was getting all excited,” he joked, and she jokingly pushed him, both laughing.

Robin knocked on the bedroom door before peeking in.

“Can I?”

“Robin, hey!” Ilsa smiled broadly at her. She was sitting on the edge of her bed in her pyjamas, rubbing her belly. “Oh look at that huge thing! Evelyn’s going to love it. And the cats, I’m afraid.”

R obin giggled and  put the Teddy bear on the chest of drawers on a side, then  sat with her, rubbing her back  comfortingly.

“How are you doing?”

“Okay,” Ilsa shrugged. “Wishing Nick was here… but Julie hasn’t called back.”

“She’s going to come, instead,” said Strike, sitting with them. “When I called her, she said she’d come as soon as she had news. Can we do anything else for you?”

“Distract me, what happened in Southwick?”

“Oh, I did the performance of my life,” said Robin proudly. “Got some interesting documents to show you all as soon as possible, but I didn’t bring them with me. I know, what if we prepare you a nice hot bath? I seem to recall you had salts and everything?”

“Oh yes, that would be nice, I’m starting to get a little nervous with this whole thing… a bath would help with that too.”

“I’ll do it,” Strike got up, walking over to the en suite master bathroom.

“And love?” Robin added.

“Yes?”

“Change and get dressed, we should be ready to bring her to the hospital at any point. Which is your hospital, Ilsa?”

“King’s College, Nick’s hospital,” Ilsa replied. “We have everything there, because Nick knows everybody there…”

“Okay, good. Why don’t you lie down and I’ll make you some lime blossom tea?”

“Good idea,” Ilsa slowly lied back down and Robin got up, both she and Strike on the move.

O utside, it had begun to rain softly, and once Robin helped Ilsa get comfortable in the hot bubble bath, rolling a towel behind her neck for utter comfort, she and Strike left the door ajar in case Ilsa called, and went downstairs to sit on the sofa, had a cup of tea and chit chat and cuddle. Half an hour later and with Ilsa still enjoying the water, that hadn’t gone cold yet, Julie arrived with discouraging news.

“The judge didn’t buy it, said Nick should’ve thought about his daughter before committing a medical negligence,” Julie told Strike and Robin over second cups of tea and biscuits. “So I tried to at least get Nick permission for a phone call outside the ones he’s normally allowed, because today isn’t his turn… but couldn’t be either. The judge says after his trial on Monday, we can talk.”

“That’s fucking bullshit,” said Strike with a puff. “So this is it? Nick misses his daughter’s birth?”

Robin had just had an idea, and stood up.

“Not if I can help it.”

“What are you going to do, kidnap him out of prison?” asked Julie with a hint of hope.

“You guys are convinced it was Jessica, right?”

“She had the means and opportunity, she knew about the patient, she knew Nick well… she’s the first person that could’ve pulled this off, and she’s strange when you talk with her about it,” said Strike, nodding.

“Then I’ll go and convince her to do the right thing.”

“Robin, court won’t accept a confession if it seems like you made her say it,” said Julie. “Be careful.”

“I will be. Time to put that psychology knowledge to good use,” Robin pulled her hair back in a messy bun and turned to Strike. “Trust me with this, Nick will not miss this. Just stay with Ilsa and comfort her, tell her he’s going to come.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because these people gave me a home for five weeks in one of the lowest moments of my life, with barely knowing me,” said Robin with the shine her eyes got when she was touched by a deep injustice, like when Strike had refused to help Alyssa Vincent all those years ago. “If I can pull out incredible undercover operations, if I can do everything I’ve done… I have to be able to do this. I have to. I need a few hours though.”

“Probably get until the morning, I’m not sure Evelyn will wait much more after that.”

“Good,” without further ado, Robin ran out, and Strike smiled to himself.

“Does she do that a lot?” asked Julie.

“Only when she truly gets pissed off by the system, and it’s always golden.”

W hen Strike returned upstairs, this time with Julie, things seemed to be rushing a little.

“The water’s broken,” said Ilsa, sweaty, rubbing her belly under the bubbles. “It’s every ten minutes now, still a while to go.” She was using the wall clock to check. “And I called the midwife in the meantime, she said to wait until five minutes before going to the hospital, she’s already gone there and she’ll wait for me there. Nick is not coming, is he?” she looked at them with glassy eyes, and Julie and Strike exchanged a slightly panicked eye, but then Strike looked at Ilsa and took a deep breath before answering with his hear.

“He wouldn’t miss this for the world, and Robin’s gone to rescue him. She needs some time though, so let’s try and buy her what we can, okay? Starting by getting you out of there, or you’ll get so relaxed Evelyn might just slip out.”

Ilsa snorted a laugh.

“That’s not how it works, but I agree I need to get out. I’ll try to sleep, that might delay things, if I convince Evie to take a little nap…”

In the meantime, Robin was driving through London as fast as she could,  calling Wyatt, Vanessa and Eric for help and informing them of the situation and her plan. Eric Wardle had figured out when Jessica Biles would be at home, and she should be now, so they agreed to meet around the corner of her street in Clapham, so Robin drove there. Slowly, the four began to appear, and stood together on the pavement under the soft drizzle as Robin told them her plan A and her plan B. When she finished, Eric and Vanessa looked a little scared.

“We could lose our police licenses for this, our careers,” said Eric slowly.

“Yes, or we could bring an innocent man back home to his wife and child on time for the birth. Look, the way I see it, Nick shouldn’t have been arrested to begin with, and he’s waited ten years for this moment, for his baby…” Robin looked desperate. “I know you guys don’t know them like I do, but trust me, they’ve been heartbroken time after time with infertility, and now is happening and Ilsa is _alone_. The man of her life is not there, her partner, her companion… how would you feel if you had to give birth to your one child, alone? If your partner was in prison unfairly, their reputation ruined by the papers, their careers trashed, for something they didn’t do? Or if your partner gave birth, and you missed it because someone kept you prisoner unfairly? Vanessa, Eric, you guys signed up for the police for what? To help people. To make justice. To catch bad people. To protect your community. Well Nick is a wonderful man, a top class doctor, lots of patients depend on him, and his family adores and misses him, and nobody protected him. We’re paying a _gangster_ to protect him. Wouldn’t it be worth losing your careers, if you knew you’d do it for the right thing?”

With a deep sigh, Vanessa nodded.

“You know I’m in, Ilsa’s quickly become one of my best friends, and Nick’s always been wonderful to me and Oliver. And they deserve this moment, they’ve been waiting for it forever.”

“You know what, to hell with it all, I can’t respect the laws that put a good man in prison. Count me in, let’s do this,” added Eric. Robin grinned and led the way to Jessica’s house.

Eric knocked on the door and when Jessica opened, she looked at the group, surprised.

“Doctor Biles, I’m DI Eric Wardle, we met once?”

“Yes, what’s up?”

“This is my partner, DI Vanessa Ekwensi, and these are some psychologists that work with us sometimes, we need to speak to you in private again.”

With a nod, Jessica moved and let them inside. The beautiful doctor led them to a neat, elegant sitting room and they sat in tense silence.

“So?” Jessica looked at them nervously.

“Dr Biles,” Eric started, collecting his thoughts, “you were Dr Herbert’s girlfriend for five years, correct?”

Taken aback, Jessica’s eyes widened, but she then nodded.

“Yes, so?”

“He left you for his current wife, Mrs Ilsa Herbert. That must’ve stung.”

“It… it wasn’t nice, obviously, to be left after five years the moment some ex comes back… but later I understood theirs was true love, it was what it was meant to be,” Jessica shrugged. “And we had been sent to work in the same hospital, so we worked hard to build an amicable relationship.”

“So you say, but what the jury will hear is that you had a motive to frame Dr Herbert, means to do it, opportunity, all the knowledge and skills you needed to have…”

“But I didn’t do it. I’d never… I don’t understand why I’m being questioned again, Dr Herbert was arrested and charged, he did it, and this is harassment, I’m calling my lawyer…”

“Before you do that, Dr Biles,” intervened Vanessa. “You should know I was ordered to conduct a separate investigation secretly to clarify whether Dr Herbert was being ambushed or not, as he swears he was. I have spoken with many colleagues of you both, who speak wonders of him and not so much of you, which has made the police more and more suspicious that you committed the medical negligence instead,” she continued, lying as Robin had instructed. “By Monday, I’ll have an order to get your fingertips and check to see if they coincide with fingertips found on the prescription used to accuse Dr Herbert, whose own fingerprints weren’t found there. What I’m saying, Dr Biles, is that if your fingertips appear there, and considering you had way more of a motive, means and opportunity than Dr Herbert—,”

“Motive?!” Jessica interrupted, clearly fearful now. “Why would I kill my own patient on purpose?”

“We don’t think you did it on purpose,” intervened Wyatt, who was to be the good, compassionate, ‘cop’. “Dr Biles, Dr Herbert told us Miss Fox had been adamant he’d prescribe her the exact same medication and dose that was written in the paper. Dr Herbert refused, and in fact according to the electronic record of the patient and her medical history, he gave her a much safer prescription, but we haven’t been able to find that paper anywhere. So we think that she’d been begging you too, in a lot of pain, suffering, and you had known what she asked for was too risky, so you had referred her to Dr Herbert hoping he’d convince her to a safer treatment, but she wasn’t convinced, was she? She returned to you, desperate, you’d known her for years, seen her get worse, seen how bad she felt and how much she suffered… Perhaps Miss Fox didn’t even want to live any more, perhaps she scared you with that. You saw her grow, you became a doctor to help people, you must have been so frustrated when you couldn’t help her, so troubled, so saddened… so when she came back begging you… it must have felt like a daughter, how were you supposed to say no? A jury will understand that. It came from a place of empathy, of compassion, of care… you didn’t mean wrong. You wrote her what she wanted, what she thought would help her, and hoped she was right. After all the medication wasn’t supposed to kill her, just sink her immune system, and plenty of people live good lives despite being immunosuppressed, and you must have thought it her pain stopped, if her suffering stopped, it was worth the risk. You are a good doctor, well-meaning, kind and generous, I can tell, and I’ll tell the jury,” Jessica stared at Wyatt with tears in his eyes. “Is that what happened?”

After a moment, Jessica let out a sob and nodded.

“I didn’t mean to… I didn’t know it was _that_ dangerous, I’m no gastroenterologist…”

“Of course, you meant only to help,” Wyatt put a hand on hers and gave her a compassionate look. “But then you were afraid you’d lose everything if it went wrong, so you tried to find an out and you thought of Nick, didn’t you? He was her gastroenterologist now, he’s kind and well-considered, nobody would suspect of him, I’m sure you thought it’ll all go just fine and she’d improve and nobody will ever know, and if it wasn’t the case, you didn’t think anybody would have enough to arrest good old Nick, of whom everyone has only good words. You didn’t know this hell was going to happen. You didn’t mean it.”

“I didn’t mean any of this…” Jessica sobbed out, nodded. “Poor Nick, with his baby…”

“He’ll forgive you,” Wyatt squeezed her hand gently. “But Jessica, you have to do the right thing. Nick will be judged on Monday, and he’ll likely be sentenced ten years of prison, in a place full of addicts. He’s already been beaten up in prison, if not worst.”

“He… no!”

“Yes, he has. I’ve been told he’s lost over half his weight too, he’s malnourished. In ten years, he’ll be the one who doesn’t want to live. And now, his wife’s gone into labour, so he’s going to miss the only child he’s ever going to have, it’s not like they’ll go for it again when he’s fifty-one and weak from a decade prison, isn’t it? Prison changes people, the kind, wonderful Nick will be dead… instead, just the shadow of who he was, probably end up divorced when he starts mistreating Ilsa, full of demons from prison, and their ten year old daughter, Evelyn. He’ll never meet her, won’t identify her as such, happens a lot between ex-prisoners, you know? And with no career to go back to… drugs, premature death. Two innocent people dead from one silly mistake you made, Ilsa and Evelyn’s lives ruined, and what fault does that little girl has? What’s she done to you? Doesn’t she deserve a Daddy?”

Jessica was crying in earnest now.

“No, no, I didn’t mean that, that can’t happen… I’m not a murderer, I… no!”

“Breathe,” said Wyatt gently, rubbing her arm softly now. “Breathe. Tell you what, Jessica. Tell the judge the truth, and he’ll be compassionate, he’s your parents’ friend, he’ll look the other way. Get Nick back home and many lives will be saved and fixed, and the judge and jury will be compassionate, I see it all the time. You and I will tell them how well-intentioned you were, how it was all a silly mistake, how you never meant to do any wrong, to cause any pain, just to take it away. Two years of prison at the very most, Jessica, they’ll probably leave it in a few months and some community service.”

“We can make a good deal if you confess,” said Vanessa. “You’d go to a good prison, with nice inmates, a library, gym… even warm, comfortable beds, visits every day, calls, and skills workshops and classes of a bunch of things. And nobody will trash talk you when you come out, people will understand why you did it, you apologize, it was all an accident, you did what Ms Fox begged you to do, anybody would’ve done the same. Come with us now, confess to the judge, sign a statement, and Nick will be released tonight. Perhaps he’ll even get to see his daughter be born, and if he gets that, he’ll forgive you everything. You confess, and we won’t charge you for obstruction to justice.”

“But I can’t!” Jessica sobbed. “I’d lose my career, my job, everything I’ve worked so far for…!”

“Very well,” Eric Wardle was the bad cop, per Robin’s indications, and pulled out his phone from a pocket. “Jessica, I was recording the whole time,” he lied, because doing so would’ve been illegal. This wasn’t Charlotte aiming a gun. “This won’t be admissible on court, but I can show the jury discreetly without the judge knowing, and then they’ll have it in count, not to mention DI Ekwensi finding your fingerprints on Monday. We won’t be so nice then, obstruction to justice alone can be anywhere between twenty years and life,” Jessica began to cry harder, but Eric wasn’t relenting or softening up, “I’m done with your stupid games Jessica, Nick’s my friend! You’re going down twenty years minimum, then ten for manslaughter, lose the respect of everyone who gives a shit about you, your career, your reputation!”

“No, no!” she cried.

And Robin decided Plan B might as well be the cherry on top of the cake, and called Strike.

“Hi, can you pass me Ilsa on videocall? I want her to talk to Jessica, Nick’s ex. She’s confessed to us, but we need an extra push to get her to confess to the judge.” Said Robin into her phone, walking away. After a few minutes, Ilsa appeared on the screen, sweaty and apparently in more advanced labour, because she was a little breathless.

“Where’s that bitch?”

“Here, Jessica, somebody wants to talk with you,” Robin held the phone to face Jessica, who stared in horror.

“Ilsa!”

“You BITCH! HOW YOU DARE TO FUCK UP WITH NICK? HE LOVED YOU!” Ilsa roared, angrier than Robin had ever heard her. “YOU CHEATED ON HIM, YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW? AND I’LL TELL THE BLOODY JUDGE, I’M A LAWYER YOU ASS! YOU BETTER DRAG YOUR FILTHY ASS TO THE JUDGE RIGHT NOW AND BEG TO GET NICK RELEASED, BECAUSE IF YOU DON’T, YOU BLEEDY WANKER, I’M GOING TO SPEND MY LIFETIME AFTER YOU, EVERY LITTLE THING YOU DO I’LL TRY TO GET YOU IN COURT, I’LL SCAT YOU DOWN, YOU DON’T KNOW THE FUCK YOU’VE MESSED WITH!” she stopped a moment to scream in pain with a bad contraction, making them all wince, but then went on after a few seconds. “IF NICK IS NOT HERE IN AN HOUR, YOU’LL BE PAYING YOUR WHOLE LIFE, I’LL GET MY COP FRIENDS AND PRIVATE DETECTIVES CORMORAN STRIKE AND ROBIN ELLACOTT TO MAKE YOUR LIFE HELL, THEY’LL HUNT EVERY BOYFRIEND YOU EVER GET DOWN, THEY’LL FIND TRASH ON YOUR PARENTS, ON YOU, AND I’LL PUT IN PRISON AS MANY OF YOUR LOVED ONES AS I CAN—!”

“ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT!” Jessica raised her hands up. “I confess! I confess.”

“Say it,” said Vanessa.

Jessica sobbed out in defeat, and Ilsa shut up, breathless. Robin tried hard to hide a smile.

“I wrote the prescription the police found, of the medication that killed Claire Fox,” said Jessica, sniffling. “I imitated Dr Herbert’s handwriting and signature and told Claire to burn the prescription he’d given her in the fireplace before taking the one I was giving her, so if anything went south, Nick would take the blame instead of me. But Dr Herbert had nothing to do with anything, I framed him.”

“You’re under arrest, stand up, hands behind your back,” said Vanessa, pulling her handcuffs. “Let’s go talk with the judge.”

Robin took her phone and walked away, turning to Ilsa.

“We’ve got this Ilsa, bloody good job. Hold on tight, Nick’s coming.”

“I’ll do my best, but hurry up Robin, this girl’s coming!”

  
  



End file.
